


There's No Honest Way Out

by kingofcarrotwallflowers



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abigail is a top, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur walks in on John changing, Body Image, Canon Divergence, Descriptions of a trans body, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Depictions of Wounds/Infection, Infidelity, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Mentions of past intent to harm an unborn child, Period-Typical Transphobia (Very Mild and not described in detail), Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Trans Male Character, Trans Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Werewolves, some dialogue is taken directly from the game, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25918051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofcarrotwallflowers/pseuds/kingofcarrotwallflowers
Summary: “His condition is not getting any better, and I am afraid it is getting worse. I have never seen an animal attack this bad. Normally anything worse than this would have killed him immediately from blood loss. This, this is nothing in comparison.” He said, and sounded confused yet intrigued. “It appears that the animal that attacked him was carrying some sort of disease. Not one I have seen before, though.” He said. When he saw Arthur and Abigail’s confused faces, he lifted John’s upper lip. “You see this bleeding on the gums? This is most unusual.” He said, and Arthur hated how amazed he looked, but he was more interested in the fact that his teeth almost appeared sharper.“So what does that mean?” Abigail asked, having had enough of watching her husband be treated as a medical anomaly.“It means that he is going to die soon.”
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1: And I Hope You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone

**Author's Note:**

> John is trans.  
> Words that will be used to describe John's body: chest, breasts, cunt, folds, slit, entrance, hole.  
> I will try to add tags as the story develops so as not to give any spoilers.
> 
> Fic title is from Brave as a Noun by AJJ.  
> Chapter title is from Blonde Hair, Black Lungs by Sorority Noise.
> 
> also biiiiiig shout out to my friend Gabe aka uhoh-morston on tumblr who helped this idea come into fruition through a many-month-long morston rp.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “His condition is not getting any better, and I am afraid it is getting worse. I have never seen an animal attack this bad. Normally anything worse than this would have killed him immediately from blood loss. This, this is nothing in comparison.” He said, and sounded confused yet intrigued. “It appears that the animal that attacked him was carrying some sort of disease. Not one I have seen before, though.” He said. When he saw Arthur and Abigail’s confused faces, he lifted John’s upper lip. “You see this bleeding on the gums? This is most unusual.” He said, and Arthur hated how amazed he looked, but he was more interested in the fact that his teeth almost appeared sharper.
> 
> “So what does that mean?” Abigail asked, having had enough of watching her husband be treated as a medical anomaly.
> 
> “It means that he is going to die soon.”

There was a thick blanket of tension hanging just above the cabin. It came with the heaviness of the weather outside. An absence of sound caused by layers upon layers of packed snow that covered the Western Grizzlies. The wind, although bitterly cold and always seeming to hit from all directions, sounded distant. A low whistle warning everyone to stay indoors. In comparison, the cabin was like the vacuum of space. Quiet, save for the hushed, worried whispers, the mumbled prayers of Reverend Swanson, and the occasional sniffle or cough. The wooden boards making up the walls and roof creaked from the weight of the snow above. The wind outside wailed eerily and kicked puffs of snow under the crack in the door. There was always snow in these parts of the mountains, but the storm had come seemingly out of nowhere. It was fucking May. 

“Where are they?” came Mary-Beth’s voice. 

No one answered. 

As if on cue, shouting came from outside. “Can we get some help here?!” Javier called out. The door swung open, slamming against the wall as the wind forcefully made way for the two men that entered. 

“John!” Abigail cried out, standing and immediately covering her mouth at the sight of him. 

He was a mess, to say the least. Covered in blood, struggling to hold onto consciousness, clothes torn. His extremities were so red that they looked like they’d been boiled. 

Abigail acted quickly, and ushered a just-woken Jack towards Susan and the other women, who elected to take him to the other cabin so he wouldn’t have to see his father so close to death. “What happened?” She asked hurriedly, moving out of the way so he could be laid down on the cot.

“Idiot tried to get himself eaten by wolves.” Arthur responded gruffly as he wiped his gloves off on his jacket front. 

“This is a new low, even by your standards.” Abigail chided John. 

“Thank you, Arthur. Thank you.” Hosea’s voice came from behind as he approached the man.

“You got any other lost maidens need saving?’ Javier asked.

“Not today.” Hosea dismissed him, and with that Javier tipped his hat and retreated to the men’s cabin. 

Hosea led Arthur back outside to where Strauss was standing once the others took over with John’s care. 

“Have you and Dutch talked about how we’re gonna get out of this?” Arthur asked, watching Bill and Lenny exit the cabin in favor of the one across the way. 

“I was just discussing with Herr Strauss that when the weather breaks, I suppose we’ll have to keep heading East.” 

“East?” Arthur asked incredulously. “Into all that… That civilization?”

“Oh, I know.” Hosea nodded solemnly. “But the West is where our problems are worse. Come on, Herr Strauss. Let’s get warm.” He said and began walking into the cabin John had just been led into. “Thank you, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur was left alone outside. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. “East…” He grumbled. “Can’t ever catch a break.” 

**  
  
**

The next morning came with less wind but still the same biting cold. It made Arthur’s bones stiff and his muscles ache. He stretched his back, groaning as he did so, and scratched absentmindedly at his beard. The cold was drying his skin out but he couldn’t be bothered to shave until all this mess was sorted. He passed Lenny on his way out the door and nodded to the kid. He found the other cabin less crowded than it had been the night before. Apparently, all the excitement and worry over John had gone out the window once the man had been treated and decided to open his mouth. He found Abigail and John arguing.

“Eaten by wolves. Never heard such a ridiculous idea.” She was pacing in front of his cot. “Who gets themselves eaten by wolves? I mean really, who?” She sat down in the chair next to him, staring at him with all the fury of a mother whose child had just returned home after leaving without so much as a letter.

“I didn’t mean to, Abigail,” John said defensively. He sounded like Jack.

“You never mean to but you always do. Always… Trouble,” Abigail huffed. 

“Well, I’ve certainly made my mistakes,” John said, and his tone was bitter. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to.” He snapped and tipped his head back onto the pillow, looking away from her.

“You are an annoying man, John Marston.” She sputtered. “You just- just shut up and get some rest.” She sighed, resigned, and then stood. Her brow was knitted together in the same way it always was after she spoke to John, and she saw Arthur now, standing by the fireplace. Her expression softened minutely, and Arthur couldn’t tell if the flush on her cheeks was from the cold or the embarrassment of being caught in a lover’s quarrel. “He’s in a sour mood. Good luck.” She huffed through her nose and stuck up her chin before leaving the room to go and find her son. 

“Think a feller might earn a sour mood when he’s nearly been eaten alive.” Arthur called to her as she left. He heard John snort across the room, although the man was still staring at the ceiling and pretending he wasn’t listening to them. 

Arthur approached casually, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He sat down in the chair beside his cot and watched John’s chest rise and fall. His head was all bandaged, and he was a sorry sight to see, even despite his childish attempt at being aloof. This close, Arthur could smell him, too. Could smell the blood, the morphine, the infection. His nose crinkled. 

“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me, or are you here to bitch at me, too?” John groused. Not that aloof, apparently.

Arthur chuckled dryly. “Maybe a bit of both. How’s that sound?” 

“Whatever. You can talk, but I ain’t listening.” John scoffed. 

Arthur hummed, and nodded. He sat back in his chair. He could see John was worrying the inside of his cheek. His brows furrowed the best that his strained muscles allowed, which was almost impressive, considering that one side of his face had catgut strung through it and was covered in gauze and bandaging. 

“Heard them saying they was gonna call in Reverend Swanson. Read me my last rights.” He said finally. “They was talking like I wasn’t even here. Like… Like I was already dead.”

Arthur sighed. “Can you blame them? We lost Davey, may he rest in peace, on the way here from that gut shot. If they weren’t scared before, that did the trick.” 

John’s gaze drifted over to Arthur, and it was cloudy, as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to have known that or not. 

Arthur was the first to tell him about Davey Callander’s death, but it was clear that the drugs pumped into his system— what little they had left— were affecting his memory. He must have expected it, though. He didn’t seem shocked by the news. After all, he’d been there when Davey had gotten shot. Not many survived a bullet to the belly. 

“Mac is going to fucking lose it.” John said definitively, and cast his gaze elsewhere. Not quite lost in space, but not lost in thought, either. He was drawn to something specific; it was clear in the focus his uncovered eye had. It reminded Arthur of a dog side-eying a fly as it buzzed past its head; like he was waiting for something to happen.

“You alright, John?” Arthur asked carefully, unsettled by the strange behaviour.

John squinted his eye and flinched as if Arthur had shouted the question in his ear. He blinked away the thought and then gave Arthur a look as if he’d just taken a shit in his boots. “I’m fine, Arthur.” He grunted. “I’m fucking tired.” He added, and purposefully left out the fact that he kept _hearing_ things— and strange things at that. His head was thrumming and there was a consistent, high pitched ringing that sounded like it was just barely within earshot. He felt like someone was turning the volume of all the sounds around him up and down wildly, which was making him want to vomit. 

Arthur just shook his head and stood up slowly. “Alright, well, rest up, Marston.” He turned and walked away. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and watched John, who was staring off into space again. He shook his head again in disbelief, and decided that whatever game was at play here, he couldn’t be bothered to play along. 

**  
  
**

John had a fitful sleep that night. He kept waking in a cold sweat, his heart racing, in a sheer panic, and out of breath. Strauss had insisted that the sweating was a symptom of the fever he had, due to all the infection festering in his face. John had complained about being cold from the way his shirt was soaked through with sweat and Strauss had told him something again about how lucky he was to be so young, that he actually had a decent chance of surviving this, despite having such gnarly wounds so close to his brain. He gave him laudanum, which eased his nerves and the pain, but warned him that it could have hallucinogenic side effects. When he’d confessed to having strange, violent dreams, Strauss had reassured him that fever dreams were often unsavoury, and hard to distinguish from reality, which often was more frightening than the dreams themselves. It wasn’t reassuring at all, especially not after being told that his medicine might make him hallucinate as well. 

That was why, when he woke up to a blood-curdling scream, he wasn’t sure whether he’d dreamt it or not. What had been most terrifying was the fact that it was his own voice, however, when he tried to make another sound, nothing came out. He felt like he was drowning, and was watching someone— no, himself— in his cot having this fit. It was something he’d never seen before. It was horrific. His spine was arched inhumanly up into the air, his joints cracking and arms twisting outwards. He wanted to look away but he couldn’t. What’s more, was that Abigail was sitting in the chair right next to him, mouth hung open and eyes wide. She was in some sort of trance, and he wanted to scream at her to do something, to stop him, to _get out._ Although she was staring directly at his contorted body, she wasn’t reacting to the horror in front of her. She was completely blind to it. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over, and John was back in his body, back in reality. He knew he was awake now because he could hear more than the rushing of blood in his ears. He could hear Abigail's soft snoring and the muffled sounds outside and the crackling of the fireplace. This time, when he came to his senses, he actually did vomit. 

Abigail woke with a start at the sound, sitting up in the chair, and she was panicked for a moment before the pity took over. “Oh, John…” She said quietly. “You missed the bucket.” 

John didn’t say anything, just tried to catch his breath as he laid back down. “Sorry.” He mumbled after a moment or two. 

Abigail sighed. “It’s alright… It ain’t smell much better in here before anyways.” She forced herself to stand, and collected one of the soiled rags to clean up the mess on the floor. It was all bile, as John hadn’t had much more to eat than plain oatmeal and water, and even that he’d hardly had the appetite to finish. 

As he laid there, his mind kept going back to the nightmare he’d had. The more he tried to remember, the less he could recall. It was like grasping at sand, all the details slipping through his fingers and blending in with the rest of everything else. 

“ _You don’t belong here..._ ” A deep, raspy voice whizzed by his ear. 

He jerked his head to the side. “Did you say something?” He asked Abigail. She was knelt right in front of him, cleaning up his mess, but she didn’t hear him.

“ _You shouldn’t be alive…”_ Came the voice again, sounding from the corner of the room. He saw nothing there. 

“Would you _shut up_?” John snapped. 

“Excuse me, Marston?” Abigail popped her head up, and scowled at him. Her expression showed hurt just as much as it did anger and disbelief. 

“ _You will learn…”_ The voice said again.

“You know what? Say whatever you want but I ain’t got time for your games.” John called out. 

Abigail tossed the rag onto the floor. “You are a real piece of work, John. Clean up your own mess.” She snapped and stormed out of the room. 

John stared up at the ceiling and waited for the voice to speak again, but he was met with only silence. As he tried to go over what the mysterious voice had said, he found that, just like the dream, the details escaped him the more he thought about it. He chalked it up to whatever mix of infection and drugs was in his bloodstream and eventually fell asleep. As he laid there in the night, he was watched. 

**  
  
**

“I’m worried.” Javier said as he came into the men’s cabin.

Arthur looked up from where he was cleaning and sharpening his hunting knife. He’d just come in from hunting deer with Charles and had dropped off their kill to Pearson. “Why?” He asked, his hand slowing slightly as he wrung out the cloth he was using to wipe down the blade. The bloody water leaked down his knuckles and he sucked his tongue against the back of his teeth in disdain as a couple drops got onto his pant leg. 

“Because. Heard more wolves while I was on watch last night. Too close for comfort. We should’ve killed most of that pack… And we covered our trail.” He explained, pulling his rifle off of his shoulder and setting it down on the table Arthur was seated at. He took his hat off and brushed the snow from it.

“Maybe it’s a different pack.” Arthur offered. He really wasn’t that concerned. The lot of them could handle some wolves.

“Shouldn’t be.” Javier insisted, taking his jacket off. “Wolves don’t like other wolves in their territory… And if it is, well, then they’re probably starving, if they’re wandering into another pack’s land.”

“You’re giving these things too much credit, Javier. Besides, they ain’t stupid. Ain’t no wolf gonna wander into a camp full of people.” 

“I don’t know, Arthur. Starving animals are… unpredictable.” He said. 

Arthur shrugged. There wasn’t anything they could do about it beyond seeking them out and killing them first, but it was a risk they didn’t need to take. None of them were out at night anyways beyond whoever was on watch, and with the weather the way it was, the shifts were much shorter. If anything happened, someone would hear and come running. The only one they really needed to worry about was Jack, but he was being kept indoors as much as possible, and was never out nor awake at night. 

Javier sighed. “Bill, you’re up.” He said, receiving a tired grumble from the other man, who was sleeping on a bedroll on the floor. Javier went over and kicked him with his boot. “I’m not taking a double shift. Get your lazy ass up.” 

“I’m going, I’m going. Christ…” Bill grunted and stood up, still grumbling things under his breath which Javier elected to ignore.

“Take your sawed-off, too. There’s wolves about.” He warned him seriously, and the man waved a dismissive hand as he went out the door, signalling that he heard him. Despite his grouchiness, he took his advice anyway. 

“Somebody shoulda told Marston that.” Arthur said, amused by himself. He ignored the fact that Javier rolled his eyes at him, and continued to sharpen his knife on the leather strap he had. Neither Hosea nor Dutch commented on it, and Arthur grew tired of the silence. Eventually, he stood up and made for the door. “Suppose someone’s gotta make sure Abigail ain’t killed him yet.” He announced, then added under his breath, “He may wish she would yet…” He didn’t actually take a direct route to the cabin, which was hard to do seeing as it was directly across the way from the one he’d been in. Instead, he followed the sounds of debate. 

“We can’t just leave him here. What about when the snow melts?” Lenny was arguing with Micah. Arthur groaned at the sight of the blonde man. 

“Well, what do you suppose we do? The ground’s frozen. And I ain’t standing here all day digging until my fingers are blue. But if you want to waste your time digging six feet into ice, then by all means, be my guest.” Micah gestured grandly at the ground, which, as Arthur approached, he could see a rough pile of snow between them that he had to assume had Davey underneath. 

Lenny frowned. “It just… It just ain’t right to leave a feller like this. We gotta put some rocks on him or something. I don’t know.” 

“Yeah, and while we’re at it, why don’t we build him a nice little bed, too. Maybe go foraging for nuts and berries so some squirrels might visit him in the spring. Come on, kid. Use your brain.” Micah jabbed. 

Arthur could see Lenny was losing steam, and he hated when Micah made a good point, so he interjected. “It ain’t that complicated, fellas.” He said, and, to emphasize, he reached down and picked up one of the larger rocks nearby and hefted it to the wooden cross they’d haphazardly put together as a grave marker. “There’s a few more over there. Put ‘em near this one.” He instructed, and the two begrudgingly followed suit, Micah more so than Lenny. “Ain’t nothin’ fancy, but it’s better than the cross getting knocked over in the wind or missed in the dark.” He explained. “And Lenny, most of this snow ain’t gonna melt, so you ain’t gotta worry about that. He’ll freeze with the ground and this will do just fine.” He raised his hands placatingly when he saw the young man about to argue. “Now I know, he deserves a proper burial, but right now we ain’t got the time, or the tools to make him one. We’ve all said our goodbyes, and if Mac wants to come visit him up here, he ain’t gonna be complaining. He’ll be more concerned about his loss.” He explained himself. “Now would you two quit bickering and get back to whatever tasks you were supposed to be doing. Because I’m sure Dutch ain’t expect you two to be out here this long.” He chided them. 

Lenny sighed but took the excuse to retreat indoors. 

Micah scoffed. “I still think we shoulda just left him behind. Anyone who thought he was gonna survive that bullet is a fool.” He said. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Because we don’t leave people behind.” 

“That’s funny you say that. Seein’ as Dutch ain’t have any issue with leaving Mac behind. And Sean.” 

“Hey, Mac and Sean did what they were supposed to do. They split off to take some of the heat. They knew where the rendezvous was. Hosea and I managed to catch up with you all just fine. And we weren’t even on the same job. If they got caught, it was their own fault.” Arthur snapped.

“I still think it’s real convenient that you two were off in la-la-land while what should’ve been the biggest job went tits up. Funny, ain’t it?” Micah was egging him on now. “Ain’t he the same old man that already tried to leave the life too?”

Arthur was furious. To imply that he was in the wrong was one thing, but to even suggest that Hosea had had something to do with the plan going wrong… He was going to put him in his place. Before he could so much as raise a fist, Abigail’s voice startled him. 

“When you boys are done fighting, I need your help. It’s John, Arthur…” She trailed off, her eyes going distant as she tried to mask whatever feeling she was having. It wasn’t the same pity or frustration she normally had. It was hurt. Arthur immediately assumed John had said something particularly nasty to her. The man could be a terror when he was in a bad mood, and being injured the way he was didn’t help his attitude. “He’s askin’ for you. He ain’t right, though.” She said quieter. Arthur realized now that the pause she’d taken was her waiting for Micah to get bored and walk away. “He’s losing time, I think.” 

Arthur followed her into the cabin. It had been mostly abandoned. Strauss was there, checking his temperature, and Reverend Swanson was reading from his bible. A pit formed in his stomach. He could see John, his skin shiny with sweat, murmuring and groaning. He watched Strauss peel his uncovered eye open and shine a light in it. 

“His pupils are blown. They are not reacting to the light.” The Austrian man said matter-of-factly. “Brace yourselves.” He said and began peeling the bandages from his face and chest. Immediately the smell of infection permeated the air and Arthur felt like he was going to be sick. The smell was offensive, but the sight was even worse. He watched as Strauss prodded one of the larger wounds on his cheek and green puss rolled down the skin. Arthur gagged at the sight and had to look away. Strauss looked at him from the corner of his eye momentarily, his eyebrows raised. “His condition is not getting any better, and I am afraid it is getting worse. I have never seen an animal attack this bad. Normally anything worse than this would have killed him immediately from blood loss. This, this is nothing in comparison.” He said, and sounded confused yet intrigued. “It appears that the animal that attacked him was carrying some sort of disease. Not one I have seen before, though.” He said. When he saw Arthur and Abigail’s confused faces, he lifted John’s upper lip. “You see this bleeding on the gums? This is most unusual.” He said, and Arthur hated how amazed he looked, but he was more interested in the fact that his teeth almost appeared sharper. 

“So what does that mean?” Abigail asked, having had enough of watching her husband be treated as a medical anomaly. 

“It means that he is going to die soon.” Strauss said, and Abigail covered her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been expecting it, she just had hoped it wouldn’t be the case. “Without knowing what the disease is, I cannot treat it.” Strauss added sympathetically. He gave a moment’s pause before saying, “I can continue to treat him as normal, but… You may want to say your goodbyes while you can.” He held his hands in front of his stomach and hung his head, watching Arthur rub soothingly at Abigail’s shoulder. 

“We need him alive, Herr Strauss. This group needs hope, more importantly. You need to treat him the best you can.” Arthur insisted. 

Strauss nodded. “Let me clean these marks and replace his bandages. Then I will leave you two alone with him.” 

Arthur led Abigail outside while Strauss went to work. The smell of the alcohol, once he’d opened it, mixing with the sickly sweet smell of infected tissue was enough to make the stomach churn, even for those who’d seen enough death for several lifetimes already. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one with a match. He took a drag and then handed it to Abigail who puffed on it anxiously. He lit another for himself and then put the pack away. 

“I’m gonna kill him.” She said, her brow knitting together. 

Arthur raised a brow at her.

“If he dies and leaves me with that boy, I swear, I will bring him back and kill him again.” She said, and as she repeated it, it sounded possible. She exhaled a puff of smoke. “Boy ain’t even mine. I love him, I love them both, but... I don’t know that I’ll have enough love left to raise a boy that ain’t even mine. Not without John.” 

Arthur found the truth behind her words to be almost amusing if it weren’t for the fact that it was such a sad truth. It also shook him for a moment when she mentioned the boy not being hers. He had gone so long without ever thinking about it that he’d nearly forgotten that part. The way Abigail had treated Jack as if she’d been the one to carry him had nearly erased the memory of John walking around pregnant. Especially when he’d taken off not long after the boy’s first birthday. He’d never been more furious with the man when he’d found out. It was one thing to leave someone with a child you were both responsible for, but to just up and abandon your child with someone who had had nothing to do with their conception was enough to floor him. His mind flashed back to John’s return. The fight that had ensued between them had been on-sight. They didn’t even have words. Arthur had just marched right up to him and knocked him to the ground. He remembered standing over him, holding him up by the collar of his shirt, and beating him. He remembered the shouting as he was ripped off of him. He remembered John’s expression as he spit blood from his mouth and stared him dead in the eye. _“Missed me?”_ John had said. Arthur had nearly tried to strangle him, and probably would have, if it weren’t for the arms holding him back. John had scrambled away despite his cockiness. 

That had been the last time Arthur had thought about John’s assigned sex. It had been hard not to when the man had been carrying around some stranger’s child. He’d bitched and whined about it the whole time. Mostly he whined about not being allowed on jobs once he got far enough along. Wouldn’t shut up to anyone that would listen about how it was unfair. He didn’t want to have the child anyways, so what did it matter if something happened to it. Arthur remembered the fury Hosea had wrought on him for talking like that. He and Bessie had never been blessed with a child, so everyone knew he took it a little personally. Hosea had lectured John about his responsibilities, and that it was his own damn fault he was in that predicament in the first place. He’d embarrassed John in front of the whole camp, announcing to everyone that, from now on, if they wanted to fuck so badly that they didn’t do so carefully, he didn’t want to hear a single word about what condition they ended up in. That was also the last time Arthur had seen Hosea so genuinely upset, and also the last time he’d seen John cry. It had been a very brief glimpse because the man had immediately retreated to his tent like a scolded child. After that, he still complained, but Arthur didn’t hear another word from him about intentionally causing his child harm. 

“Arthur? Are you listenin’ to me?” Abigail repeated.

“Shit, sorry. Yeah…” Arthur scrubbed at his face. He took one more long drag from his cigarette and then flicked it to the ground. He ground it out with his heel. “I think he’s gonna be fine.” He said softly, although he really wasn’t sure. “He’s gotta be. Ain’t no one on Earth lucky enough to survive an attack like that just to get screwed over while they heal.” He added, trying to lighten the mood. 

“I hope you’re right.” 

Strauss came out after a little while and gave his condolences. The two went inside and found John calmer than before. He looked like he was asleep, and they knew it must have been the medicine he’d been given. He was no longer asking for folks that weren’t around, but that was because he wasn’t saying much at all. Abigail sat down next to him, taking his hand in both of hers. Arthur leaned against the wall, his arms folded as he watched patiently. Painfully. “John? I’m here, John.” She said quietly. “You’re not allowed to die, John. It ain’t your time.” She urged him. 

His eye cracked open, and he smiled. “Hey, Darlin’...”

Abigail’s eyes watered again. “John… Jack wants to see you. He’s been askin’ for you all day but, but you really scared us. Couldn’t let him see you….” 

John frowned and he pulled his hand away. “I can’t see the boy like this.” He said. “Give him nightmares…” He added, and the last word hung on the air with a depth that only hinted at the horrors that had been plaguing his sleep since he’d gotten to Colter. 

“But John, if you…” She trailed off, putting her hand over his. “What if it’s the last time, John?” 

He scowled at her like he was offended, and for the most part, he was. “Then he’s better off remembering me in a better state than this.” He snapped. “I’m not seeing him. It’s not gonna happen.” He snatched his hand away again. “Don’t know why you’d wanna see me like this either. Always sayin’ I’m a disappointment to you. Well how’s this for disappointing?” He gestured to his bandages. “Ain’t even the wolves what’re killin’ me. Just sickness. Write that in a story someday, why don’t you.” The last bit stung a little. He knew she didn’t know how to read and write. It was a figure of speech, but he didn’t need to use it. 

“John. Please. Don’t be like this.” She begged. 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole, Marston.” Arthur interjected. He couldn’t just stand there and watch all of that. “Dyin’ ain’t no excuse to abuse your wife.”

“Ain’t my wife.” 

Arthur took a step forward towards his bed. “I oughta strangle you, boy.” He threatened, and Abigail stood up, putting a hand on his chest as he got even closer, John scoffing at him. 

“Arthur, don’t. It’s fine. Some people get mean when they… It’s fine. Ain’t nothing I ain’t heard him say before.” She sighed and kissed Arthur on the cheek. “I’m gonna go.” She said. “I love you, John. Even if you are a pig.” And with that, she walked away.

Arthur paced for a minute to calm down. John’s eye followed him back and forth across the room before growing bored and staring off into space. “Already moving in to take my place, I see.” He said sadly.

Arthur turned to look at him and scoffed. He sat down in the chair. “That’s all you got to say?” He clicked his tongue. “Guess you really are as hare-brained as people say.”

“People say that?”

“Ain’t the point. John, I know… I know you ain’t well but… Do you have to be such a-a… an ass?” He sighed and removed his hat to run a hand through his hair. “Who am I kidding? Of course you do.” He stared at the black stetson in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “What are we gonna do with you?” 

“What are you gonna do without me? Ain’t matter what you do with me if I’m dead.”

“Quit talkin’ like that, would you?” Arthur snapped. His grip tightened on his hat in his frustration. He huffed out of his nose. 

John watched him quizzically. “You gonna miss me?” He asked quietly. 

Arthur laughed dryly and sniffed. “You can’t ask me that.” 

“Yes, I can.”

“... Of course.” 

John snorted. “If I die, you’re not allowed to go soft like you’re gettin’ now.” 

  
  


“Nah… You ain’t gonna die.” Arthur cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair and putting his hat back on. “You’re too stubborn for that. We all know it.” 

John nodded. “Maybe so.” He sighed. They were both quiet for a long while, just listening to the crackling of the fireplace and the wind whistling outside. “God, I hope you’re right…” John admitted, his voice cracking. 

Arthur looked up at him and saw his eyes watering. 

“I don’t wanna die.” He continued. “Not like this.” He looked at Arthur for a moment and then had to look away, unable to allow himself the vulnerability. 

Arthur hesitated for a moment and then took his hand. John allowed it, and he was burning hot to the touch, and Arthur squeezed his hand. He watched John close his eye tight, willing away the tears. They stayed like that for longer than was necessary, until eventually, Arthur realized that John was sleeping. He let go of his hand, putting it to rest on his stomach, and cleared his throat. He almost didn’t want to leave the cabin, but he knew it would be his turn to take over the watch soon. He hated the thought of leaving him alone. Of him dying alone. But he had no choice. He pulled his scarf up around his chin and braced himself for the cold, then opened the door and stepped outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo yeah! I hope you guys like it! This is the most ambitious writing project I've attempted to date.  
> This fic is going to have a lot of themes of the struggles of body image and masculinity as a trans man, as well as the fears and feelings associated with being pregnant while trans. This isn't intended to be a fetishy mpreg and will not have any a/b/o dynamics. 
> 
> feedback is always appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2: I Think You're Changing, But Don't Worry You Don't Gotta Stay The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He nearly dropped the mirror in shock. That wasn’t supposed to be there. Men like him didn’t grow facial hair. His eyes filled with curiosity as he brought the mirror up close again, turning his head side to side to examine himself more intently. He thought he looked… masculine. He didn’t know why this was happening, but he didn’t want it to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Be Nice to Me by The Front Bottoms.
> 
> This chapter is much shorter than the last one because I wanted to pace it out better with the next chapter.

The next few days after their conversation had been a strange sequence of events. The Van der Linde gang had accidentally recruited a new member. Or more so adopted. It wasn’t unusual for Dutch to take a new lost soul under his wing. Any man or woman broken and beaten down by the world enough to be left impressionable and angry was enough to reignite the fire in Dutch’s eyes. In this case, it was a woman. Sadie Adler, they’d learned, was her name. They’d found Colm O’Driscoll’s boys on her ranch, having left her husband and stable hands dead in a wagon in her front yard. They’d commandeered her horses and unintentionally burned down her entire house. Rather, Micah had, as he’d teased and chased her around her kitchen table until he’d flipped it dramatically. She held her own, though, and pulled a knife on him. That hadn’t stopped the wood cabin from catching fire once the candle had hit the floorboards. 

They’d had another run-in with Colm’s boys once Dutch had realized who they were working for. That confrontation had gained them another “new member”. Kieran Duffy. He was a prisoner, though. A hostage. The way he begged for mercy and insisted he “didn’t know where Colm was” almost made Arthur feel sorry for him. Almost. All of that wasn’t that strange in the end, though. But, what had happened with John was. 

The man’s condition had spiraled violently for the worse the night he and Arthur had spoken. He’d gone in and out of fits. He’d thrashed in his sleep, howling in pain, screaming, begging to be put out of his misery. He kept asking for water. More water. Cold water. Insisted that he was burning alive. Or being eaten alive. Or both, at the same time. He was delirious. One moment, he would seem fine; he would seem conscious, lucid enough for small talk, almost. The next, he’d be talking nonsense, gibberish, shaking his head and foaming at the mouth. At some point, they’d had to move him into the smaller cabin. It had become impossible for anyone else to sleep in the same building as him, let alone the same room. The women were scared and, if they were being honest with themselves, the men, too. They kept a watch on him and didn’t dare let Jack see him. They all did their best to keep the boy distracted and entertained. Micah had tried to set up a betting pool on when he was going to kick the bucket, but Hosea had put a stop to that immediately. Most of the adults were divided, although no one really had the stomach to discuss their differing opinions on whether or not it was worth continuing to treat him for his wounds. Several of them thought it was cruel, or a waste, to keep him alive. The rest wouldn’t hear a single word of it. 

At the worst of it, he had to be restrained to his cot. He kept trying to get up, insisting he needed to get outside, that someone or something was calling for him. Insisting that he was suffocating inside. They brushed it off like it was just more of his nonsense, but then he started to get violent. Small things, at first. He would throw his mug across the room. Swatted at Strauss or Abigail or whoever tried to treat his wounds. He tipped a bowl of hot soup into Charles’ lap. Once he began clawing, swiping, kicking like a wild animal, Charles had had to call for help. It had taken three of them to hold him down. Charles, Bill, and Arthur had shared confused, worried looks as they realized the sheer strength that John had as he tried to fight them off. An unnatural amount of strength for a dying man. Eventually, they’d managed to hold him down long enough for him to tire himself out. He had laid there, panting through his teeth and staring at them. In all the commotion, none of them had heard the howling from the woods. 

When John had eventually fallen asleep that night, tied to his cot with rope, Strauss had announced that whatever disease had taken him had gotten into his brain. He had anticipated his death within the next forty-eight hours. 

Abigail had fallen to the ground, or just about, but Arthur had caught her. She wailed, heartbroken, and Arthur stood still and calm, holding her. He set his jaw and stared blankly forward as she clung to his jacket. All he could think about was Jack. The boy had begun to suspect that something was wrong, terribly wrong, with John. But the boy couldn’t express his feelings about it. Wouldn’t. Arthur felt a deep ache in his chest as he thought about it more, and held onto Abigail tighter. Everyone was quiet that night. 

The next day, John was fine. His wounds were still a bit infected in spots, but he could talk and respond to stimuli. He had no recollection of what had happened since his fever had broken. He didn’t understand why everyone was looking at him so strangely. Nobody really knew how to process what they were witnessing. Strauss, in shock, confirmed that his condition was just fine after all. He was going to live. Arthur was deeply confused, and something deep in his gut told him that this was only the beginning of strange things for John Marston. He had no idea how to feel about it, so he settled for his usual grim acceptance. Another problem for the Van der Linde gang, but at least it was a problem for the future. 

Abigail berated John. She ranted and raved and called him all kinds of names. She cursed him for making her worry. For making her  _ mourn.  _ She told him he had no right to be acting like that. He had no right to make everyone worry. To waste everyone’s time. She lectured him about how things needed to change. She wasn’t going to put up with his bullshit anymore with Jack. She wasn’t going to ever worry or mourn over him again. She said he’d better be damn sorry. John had just stood there and taken it. He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t know what he’d done. He was angry, too. He’d started returning to his old lines.  _ It wasn’t his fault _ . Abigail returned with her old response.  _ Nothing was ever his fault _ . They went back and forth for a brief minute before John just let her go at him. He’d seen it in everyone’s faces; they’d all been convinced he was going to die. Eventually Abigail tired herself out. She didn’t speak another word to him the entire ride down the mountain. 

Although everyone was still struggling to understand what had happened, Dutch was the first to insist that they shouldn’t question a miracle. He had given a small speech and had them packed and ready to ride within the hour. 

Hosea led them into the Heartlands, to a secluded area in the woods. It was a nice enough clearing nestled on the side of one of the Southern hills. It ended on a cliff and looked out over the Dakota River and the valley that it ran through, hence the name Horseshoe Overlook. 

Arthur, like everyone else, was just happy to be back in the warmer weather. 

“Now it feels like spring.” Mary-Beth said cheerfully to him as she passed by. 

He smiled at her politely and shed his thick winter coat. He watched as Susan directed the girls to set up the tents. Arthur’s was one of the first to be put together. He hadn’t asked, but he was grateful nonetheless. The first thing that he did once he was able to, was shave his face. As he splashed water up onto his chin, he inspected himself in the mirror. In the reflection, he caught a glimpse of John being shooed away from work. Arthur stood up a little straighter and pulled the string holding his tent flap open, letting it fall closed, and began to change his clothes. As he was tying it back up, he heard Dutch calling everyone towards his tent. He was standing on a crate, and preparing to give one of his famous inspirational speeches. Arthur groaned inwardly, but made his way to the back of the crowd that gathered. 

“We lost people dear to us. But we are not lost. If I could throw myself…” 

Arthur tuned out, distracted. He kept catching John out of the corner of his eye. He was fidgeting. He looked like he had somewhere else to be. Somewhere he’d rather be. He resembled, Arthur thought, Reverend Swanson whenever he was off of the morphine for a few days. Arthur figured that he must be coming down from the effects of the laudanum.  _ Or the effects of whatever the hell that other shit was _ , he thought. He was scratching his skin, behind his ear, along his jaw. His hand dipped beneath the red union suit he wore, under the tight undershirt he used to keep his form, to scratch at his chest. He was tapping his foot impatiently. Strangely enough, Arthur caught a glimpse of what he swore was the first sprouts of stubble in those spots. He felt eyes on him and looked up, realizing in mild horror that John was staring right back at him. Arthur quickly looked away. He could still feel John’s eyes on him, but he defiantly stared forward, ignoring him and pretending like he hadn’t just been doing the same thing. 

Arthur realized belatedly that the speech had ended as everyone made various responses. The crowd cleared and when he checked to see if John was still watching him, he saw that the man was gone. He scratched at the back of his head and sighed. Hosea approached him again and told him that there was a town nearby called Valentine. He asked Arthur to take a look around the town, explaining that several of the other men would be doing the same thing. Javier and Charles had already gone out to run reconnaissance, he told him. Arthur agreed to meet them, but first he needed to rest. 

John watched Arthur slip into his tent from behind Pearson’s wagon. The man stretched out on his cot and placed his hat over his face. He was taking a nap. He was doing what John was supposed to be doing. John was anxious, though. Overstimulated by the new sights and sounds of their surroundings. And smells, he thought. He had never been one to want to sit and stay put, but the urge to wander and explore had never been so strong. Problem was, Abigail wouldn’t let him. She hadn’t outright said it yet, seeing as she still wasn’t speaking to him after whatever had happened during the last few days. The memory loss was an uncomfortable thing to come to terms with, but he continued to tell himself that it was a symptom of his high fever. He was avoiding her regardless of whether or not they were on speaking terms. Now, if he could just get to his horse… 

“And where do you think you’re going?” Abigail’s annoyed tone came from behind him. 

His shoulders sank. “Out.”

“Oh no you’re not,” she said, and when he turned to face her, her expression was more disappointed than annoyed. He’d seen her give that same look to Jack any time he fussed about practicing his reading or writing. “I don’t know what that stunt was that you pulled nearly dyin’ up there but there ain’t no way in Hell that I am gonna let you wander off in your condition.” She scolded him. “And if you think you ain’t need to rest like, no,  _ more  _ than, everybody else in this camp… Then, well, you really are as big a fool as everyone says…” She added. 

“I just wanna get a lay of the land, Abigail. Get out and stretch my legs. Go for a ride.” He argued.

“You wanna stretch your legs? Go take a walk around camp. Plenty to do and see around here.” 

“Thought you didn’t want me doin’ chores.” 

“Exactly, so go rest, you fool.” She reached up and mussed his hair. This time, the name was more affectionate. Still annoyed, still a hint of pity, but more loving. “Ain’t that hard…” She added, speaking more to herself as he walked away. As he disappeared into his tent, he heard her call out, “I’ll be comin’ to check on you so don’t you think of sneakin’ off!” 

He let the flaps close behind him and sighed. He could at least try and rest, he decided. He was tired, after all. Apparently, if what he’d overheard on the ride down was true, he had died, or just about. That would be enough to tire out most folk. Hell, the thought alone was unnerving enough to think about that it exhausted him. What he didn’t understand, though, was why he felt so trapped here. He felt like his whole body was itching with the need to explore. He’d never felt the need to know every inch of land, to turn over every rock, to climb every tree. Surely, he wouldn’t be doing that, not even when he did heal, but it was unnerving to have these compulsions. It was nice to have a little privacy again, though. After the attack, he’d been stuck in the same union suit for days, and he was desperate to get it off. The undershirt even more so. He kicked off his boots and tossed his jacket onto one of the crates that functioned as a makeshift table. Once he got his pants off, he carefully peeled the union suit from his body like a sunburn; the way it smelled of sweat and sick— both the infected wounds that had leaked onto it as well as vomit that had missed the bucket— made him gag. He banished it to the opposite corner of his tent from which his cot sat. Next, he shed the undershirt, subconsciously looking over his shoulder to double check that no one had entered his tent as he did so. He took a deep breath, hissing at the way the expansion of his ribs pulled on the stitching in his side. He gingerly ran his fingers over the bandages. They were spotted with blood, and he sighed as he realized he would be needing assistance to change them soon. It was one thing to expose himself in front of others while he was unconscious and near death— it was absolutely necessary— but it was a different story when he had to be awake and aware while it happened. He examined himself in the small hand-mirror that sat on the crate. 

He looked strange, he thought, standing there wearing men’s drawers, small breasts hanging freely, the hair on his legs, arms, and armpits unkempt— just the way he liked it— and his hair long and greasy from not being able to bathe since before the Blackwater job. He felt like an imposter of a man. His fingers touched the cellulite on his belly. Stretch marks from carrying Jack. He thought, briefly, that maybe if he’d listened for once to Susan and had actively tried to put some meat on his bones, the skin wouldn’t have been stretched so taut as to leave them. He knew that it was a silly idea, that it would’ve happened anyways, or if not there, somewhere else. When he brought the mirror up to examine his face, his nose scrunching up when he touched a sensitive spot on the bandaging, he noticed something more out-of-the-ordinary than the garish wounds. He turned his jaw to face the dim candlelight, and when that didn’t help, had to bring his face closer to the light altogether. It looked like there was stubble there, and he had to brush his fingers over his jaw to confirm it.

He nearly dropped the mirror in shock. That wasn’t supposed to be there. Men like him didn’t  _ grow _ facial hair. His eyes filled with curiosity as he brought the mirror up close again, turning his head side to side to examine himself more intently. He thought he looked… masculine. He didn’t know why this was happening, but he didn’t want it to stop. He didn’t think about his wounds or his breasts or his stretch marks. He didn’t think about what was beneath his drawers. He didn’t think about his small waist or the comments some of the other men made. He didn’t think about the fact that the others would certainly question him or how he wouldn’t have an answer for them. He just accepted it, and thanked whatever had blessed him. He didn’t want to get too excited, but he did start to wonder what other changes might be coming his way, seeing as everything seemed to be changing lately. 

“Hey, John, I think in their rush the girls put some of your stuff in my… tent.” Arthur began speaking as he moved the flap to John’s tent, slipping inside, but trailed off as he realized belatedly that the man was indecent. His hand flew up to cover his eyes so quickly he nearly knocked his hat off of his head. “ _ Shit _ , I’m sorry, John. I forgot you… I forgot I ought to knock.” He apologized and turned around. The image of John standing there in just his drawers burned behind his eyes. 

At the sudden intrusion, John’s hands came to cover his chest and he spun around away from Arthur. “Get out, Morgan!” He snapped. 

“I’ll just put this down here.” Arthur said dumbly and dropped the small suitcase of clothes onto the ground. “I’m going now.” He said, and pushed his way out of the tent again. 

John slowly unwrapped his arms from around himself once he was sure Arthur was gone. He was once again reminded that there really was no such thing as privacy when they lived like this. He sighed, any confidence he’d had losing the wind in its sails, and he rifled through the bag Arthur had dropped off. He found a loose cotton shirt and slipped it on. It wouldn’t be very long before Abigail would come to make sure he hadn’t run off and change his bandages. He laid on his back on his cot and stared blankly up at the ceiling of his tent. His hand absentmindedly drifted back up to smooth his fingertips back and forth over the stubble on his chin. It was fascinating. 

“Idiot…” Arthur mumbled to himself. As he walked over to his horse, he found that he couldn’t erase the image from his head. Not because of what he’s seen of John’s front, but because of what he’d seen of his back. It was  _ hairy _ , and not like anyone of his kind should have been. It made him think back to watching the man scratch at himself during Dutch’s speech. The way he’d itched at his face the same way Arthur had the whole time in Colter. John couldn’t grow hair like that, though. Never had before. He even recalled the few times the man actually complained about it. Now, all of a sudden… 

“Arthur! Are you going into town?” Uncle’s voice shook him from his thoughts. He groaned inwardly.

“Was planning on it. Why? What do you want?”

“Now, is that any way to talk to your dear old friend?” Uncle laughed nervously as he saw Arthur was starting to walk away from him. “C’mon, Arthur, you know I’m only playing.” 

“You sure as Hell ain’t workin’.” 

Uncle laughed. “See? Now-now that’s funny! That’s what I always liked about you, Arthur. You’re a funny fella.” He said amiably, and Arthur knew he was being buttered up for something.

“Just go on and ask so I can say no.” Arthur sighed.

“Well, I was hopin’ you might say yes, actually. You see, I was thinking I might take the girls into town. You know, take a look around, see if there’s anything worth doing, or-or robbing?”

Arthur nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Ahh, so you mean  _ I  _ might take the girls, and see if  _ I  _ might like to do some robbing? Is that right?”

Uncle sputtered. “Now, you know I have lumbago and-“

  
“ _ And you can’t drive. _ Just go and tell the girls we’re leaving.” Arthur cut him off, dismissing him. He patted his horse on the neck affectionately. “Not yet, boy.” He said softly in his ear, and the horse nickered in response. He fished a peppermint from his pocket and fed it to him before making his way over to the wagon Uncle was planning on taking. He heaved himself up into the driver’s seat, soon joined by Karen, Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Uncle. He flicked the reigns of the draft horse and they got to moving, the wheels clunking over a rock as they started down the trail away from camp and towards this new town. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am using the lycanthropy as a parallel to HRT and so far it's been a really fun concept to play with!
> 
> Next chapter will have smut in it 


	3. Chapter 3: You Are Coming Down With Me, Hand In Unlovable Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aww, you’re right,” Arthur said. “I don’t know what I was thinkin’.” He licked his lips. He made to move his hand away from John’s face, but found that he couldn’t as John wrapped his fingers around his wrist. “John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is smut-heavy and we’re finally seeing why there’s an explicit rating. 
> 
> reminder of terminology used for John’s body in this fic: cunt, folds, slit, chest, breasts, clit, entrance, hole. 
> 
> Chapter title is from No Children by The Mountain Goats.

It was May 18th, one week before the full moon, and three weeks after settling in Horseshoe Overlook. Not that anyone was keeping track of the lunar cycle. They had no reason to. 

John’s body was healing up slowly but surely and, no matter how much he fussed, Abigail saw to it that his wounds were cleaned at least once per day. The closing of flesh across his thighs, ribs, and face wasn’t the only change in his appearance. He had a full face of stubble now, which Abigail continued to comment on, saying how strange it was. His voice was more gravelly, a tad deeper, and she’d brought Strauss in to check on him, worried he might be getting sick again. Strauss had come up with nothing, though, and suggested that it may have been a side effect of the disease the animal had been carrying.  _ That _ was news to John. The thought picked away at his brain as Abigail dampened a cloth in the small metal wash bucket she’d carried into his tent. He was annoyed that no one had mentioned that part to him. This whole time, he’d been walking around carrying some sort of disease and didn’t even know it. He could’ve had rabies, or God knows what else, and no one had thought to mention it. 

“I thought it went away,” Abigail defended herself, not oblivious to the tenseness of John’s shoulders since Strauss had left, and her tone was honest. She didn’t know much about diseases or how they worked, beyond the fact that they usually led to death. Whether it was a quick or slow death depended on how lucky you were, she supposed. 

“But you ain’t thought to tell me? Ain’t thought that  _ maybe _ it would be somethin’ I might like to know?” John asked.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, John Marston.” Abigail chided him and wrung out the cloth she was using to bathe him. He had protested that at first as well, but every time she came in to change his bandaging, she managed to convince him to just let it happen, seeing as she already had everything all set up. 

John grunted in response, his back arching away from her in response to the cold water running down his spine. “Couldn’t you have warmed up the water first?”

“Well, I would have if you were patient enough to let me boil it. But you ain’t.” 

John huffed a laugh. “Fair enough.” 

As she reached her arms around him to wash his chest, she kissed his neck. It sent goose flesh across his skin in each spot that her breath caressed him. She teased him, nipping at his earlobe as she pinched one of his nipples, and slowly ran the wet rag down the treasure trail on his stomach. 

“Abigail…” He said softly. He got only a hum in response between the kisses she planted along his shoulder. He watched the cloth dip between his legs, and shivered at the coldness of it. 

The cloth was replaced with a hand as she moved on to wash his thigh. She always was good at multitasking. His breath hitched as her deft fingers slipped between his folds, gathering up the wetness that wasn’t from the cloth. 

That was another change he’d noticed. His clit was bigger and more phallic looking. It was the strangest change so far, not that he was complaining. It was more sensitive, too, and would throb and swell when he was aroused. This was only the second time since before Blackwater that he and Abigail had gotten intimate with each other. He’d learned that, once he’d been forgiven for nearly dying, the close-call had sparked some emotions in the woman and she’d shown him just how forgiven he was. That first time, they’d both been surprised by it. John didn’t spend a lot of time inspecting his nethers, didn’t like to look at them or touch them much more than was needed. He had seen the gears in her head working as she took it in, had seen her trying to solve the puzzle, but she hadn’t commented on it. Perhaps, John supposed, she didn’t want to embarrass him. Maybe she just didn’t think it would be polite to ask. They’d both learned very quickly that it wasn’t going to be an issue. Thinking about it now, John had to assume it was caused by whatever was causing all the other changes in him. These results were starting to get a bit frightening, even if he wouldn’t admit it, but they were still beneficial. 

“Shit, Abigail,” John huffed in pleasure as she stroked him with her thumb and two fingers. He leaned back against her and if she minded that her dress got damp because of it, she didn’t say so. 

“You been a good boy lately?” She asked in the way she knew always unravelled the man, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. She had always been the more dominant lover when it came to their “marital relations”. If John was ever asked— which he wasn’t— he would claim it came from her being more experienced. If Abigail ever heard him say something like that— which she didn't— she would slap him. 

John nodded and heard the cloth drop into the wash bin. Then, he felt another hand creep around his waist. Two fingers pressed against his entrance but stayed outside. 

“I didn’t hear that,” Abigail said, starting to pull her hand away.

“Yes. I’ve been a good boy,” John answered, his tone pleading. He felt Abigail slip her fingers inside him, and he made a noise in his throat as he tried to stay quiet. It was the middle of the day and everyone who was at camp was busy moving around. 

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” Abigail kissed his neck again and slowly pumped her fingers in and out of him. She curled them up, searching for that spot she knew was inside him, and when he bucked his hips forward she knew she’d found it. She continued to whisper soft praises in his ear with each little sound he let escape and her other hand stroked his clit more in-time with the thrust of her fingers. 

John cursed under his breath and could feel the muscles in his thighs twitching. Abigail, when she felt like it, could play him like an instrument. He huffed out a moan, tipping his head back against her shoulder. The pulsing of his walls around her fingers was enough of a tell that she knew he was approaching his finish. “Abigail…” He choked out.

“You gonna come for me? Go ahead.” She picked up the pace, milking his orgasm from him as she rubbed his clit with a little more pressure. 

That was enough for John. “Oh fuck-“ He gasped. His hips bucked up and he squeezed around her, groaning through gritted teeth. She could feel his pulse throbbing through his clit and continued to stroke him as he rode it out, whispering praises to him the whole time. 

Abigail shushed him as he came down from his peak. 

“Do you want me to…?” He turned around, ready to slide to the ground in front of her if she said the word. 

She didn’t, though. Instead, she kissed his forehead. “I’m alright, John,” she reassured him and stood up. “Go on and get dressed. I need you to get some things for me in town,” she added, and handed him a short list. 

He scanned it and frowned. He didn’t have a lot of money right now. He didn’t really have  _ any _ money right now. He supposed he would have to start keeping his eyes and ears peeled for a decent take. Maybe when Arthur, Charles, and Javier got back from collecting Sean and Mac, one of them would have an idea. He knew that there was talk from Bill about how easy it would be to rob the bank in Valentine. He wasn’t so sure how he felt about the plan, though. He sighed and dressed himself, putting the list away in his jacket pocket. 

  
  


There was good news and bad news. The good news was that Sean was back. The bad news was that Mac had been caught and presumably killed. That, in one way, was also good news because it meant that he could die thinking that Davey had lived. 

Sean’s return was good for the gang’s morale and even Arthur, who was sore and stressed out from having to retrieve him from West Elizabeth, found himself enjoying the celebration. They could always count on Sean to create a little bit of fun around camp, and what better way to celebrate the Irishman’s return than with wine, women, and song? Two out of three wasn’t bad, Arthur thought. Of course they  _ had _ women at the camp, but they weren’t tools to be used in festivities the same way that the song and drink was. As Arthur pulled a bottle out from the case by Pearson’s wagon, he thought that maybe they should change the phrase to whiskey, women, and song. He opened the bottle and took a swig, enjoying the burn as it trickled down his throat. From where he was standing, he could hear Sean regaling those gathered around the fire with the tale of their escape. He left out the part about hanging from a tree by his feet. Arthur didn’t feel the need to stick around for the rest of the story. He’d been there, after all. Sean moved on to tell them all about his flight with Mac just before they’d split and that was when Arthur decided that he definitely didn’t want to listen to any more. The day had been draining enough just being so close to Blackwater again. That, and being with Javier and Charles all day had reminded him of their last outing together. 

His mind kept wandering back to the evening in Valentine, getting caught up in that bar fight, and getting thrown through the window of the saloon by the biggest guy in town. He still hadn’t found the time to mend the tear in his buckskin jacket, which he ran his fingers over now, feeling the split ends in his armpit. It had taken him long enough to scrub the mud off of it. He gritted his teeth at the memory. “ _ Pretty boy,” _ Tommy had called him. It made the muscles in his jaw twitch. He was snapped from his thoughts by a chorus of laughter somewhere off to his left, and he caught the end of what had happened, seeing Bill’s feet sticking up in the air from where he’d fallen to the ground. The playing cards scattered across the table told him that he’d lost that round of poker, must’ve busted out, he thought, the way Miss Grimshaw was scraping the coins and bills toward herself. He watched a very drunk Bill grumble as he pulled himself up to stand, stumbling and catching himself on the table before walking off in defeat. 

Arthur wandered past the poker table, finding Dutch and Hosea reminiscing together. Dutch had his hand over the older man’s on the small table. He looked up at Arthur when he noticed him lingering. “We’re old men, Arthur. Leave us to our memories,” he said, although there was no annoyance in his tone. His face had the flush that came with a few drinks, and Arthur just chuckled. He sat at the scout fire awhile, drinking alone. He could hear Sean leading some sort of song near the main fire and he hummed along quietly. He took out his journal and wrote the last few day’s events down before he forgot them. By the time he was finished, the bottle of whiskey was nearly empty. 

The alcohol was making him warm, and the late spring air left his skin a little sticky under so many layers, so he shed his jacket, leaving it draped over the chest at the foot of his cot on his way towards Pearson’s wagon to retrieve another bottle. Mary-Beth stopped him along the way. 

“Dance with me, Arthur?” she asked, batting her eyes up at him. 

He looked over and saw Dutch and Molly already engaged in a dance of their own and looked back at Mary-Beth, blinking in surprise as her request registered with him. He knew that she was sweet on him. She was a hopeless romantic and everything about her body language showed it. The way she twirled her hair, batted her eyes, sighed dramatically. Arthur thought that she seemed to live in some sort of romance novel inside her head with the way she carried on. He didn’t know what she saw in him. He didn’t look like the men on the covers of those books beyond his brooding expression. He smiled at her politely despite the fact that he really didn’t want to lead her on. She was a sweet girl and all, but he didn’t have time for romance the way she wanted it from him. “Yeah, alright,” he said, because he couldn’t handle seeing her disappointment. “I ain’t much of a dancer, though,” he apologized, not wanting her to be disappointed by what he was sure was going to be a poorly given performance. 

She smiled up at him as he took her hand in his, the other falling easily on her waist, and he led her in a simple waltz. She seemed to be enjoying herself despite his awkward footing. 

Arthur found that he couldn’t keep his attention on her, which, if he were sober, might’ve made him feel a touch guiltier than it actually did. Each time they spun around, stepping just enough to one side or the other, the poker table came into view. Arthur’s eyes fell on John each time. Unintentionally, of course. At least, that’s what he was telling himself. The man was just so loud, and he stuck out like a sore thumb with the way he was sitting. Lounging was more like it, Arthur thought, his legs outstretched in front of him. He was talking a lot of shit, Arthur knew, even if he couldn’t make out all the words amongst the sounds of the rest of the party. He could see it in his body language. He also had played enough poker with John that he knew what he was like. He tried to pay equal attention to the woman he was dancing with, not wanting her to catch on to the fact that he so badly wanted the dance to be over. But then John got up from the table and wandered towards the edge of camp, a lean and sort of shuffle to his gait that told Arthur how many beers were in his system. Not that he would admit that he knew the man that well. He swallowed a lump in his throat, which he realized was dry, and excused himself from Mary-Beth. 

She said something about him owing her a proper dance, and he replied with something noncommittal. “Another time, then…” she sighed sadly. 

He wandered towards the brush John had disappeared into. 

“Little Johnny Marston,” he sang as he approached the other man. 

John nearly jumped out of his skin. He was fiddling with his belt, and Arthur figured he must’ve just taken a leak in the bush that was now behind him as he turned to face Arthur. “What do you want now, Arthur?” he groaned. 

Arthur clucked his tongue at him. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Johnny.” 

John’s eyebrows raised condescendingly. “Oh yeah? What else is new?”

Arthur chuckled dryly. “Very funny, John,” he cleared his throat and continued, “But nope! You been actin’ strange. Y’look strange… Somethin’s… different, with you, ain’t it, John?” He leaned into his space and John took a step back. 

“What are you gettin’ on about, Morgan? You’re drunk,” John scoffed at him dismissively.

Arthur didn’t like when he scoffed at him. He took another step forward. His spurs jingled. He reached up to touch his face, brushing his knuckle against the scruff on his chin. “I’m gettin’ on about this. Where’d this come from, John?” 

John swatted his hand away. “Seriously, Arthur, you’re pissin’ me off now,” he snapped and took another step backwards.

“Aww… Don’t be shy, John. I won’t tell no one. Promise,” Arthur teased and took another step. A twig snapped under his boot.

John moved backwards again and his back met the trunk of a tree. He stared back at Arthur and the calculating gaze that met his own made him feel strange. He was reminded of the way Abigail had looked at him when she’d seen the change between his legs. He swallowed. 

When he didn’t protest further, Arthur moved into his space again and his hand came up to John’s jaw. This time, John let him. 

“I think it suits you,” Arthur said, and his voice was softer as he examined his face. 

John could smell the whiskey on his breath. He was sure Arthur could smell the same on his own. “Alright, quit playin’, Arthur,” John said and put his hand on Arthur’s chest to push him away. He didn’t push, though. 

Arthur’s eyes flickered down to his hand then back up to John’s face. 

John saw something flash behind his eyes, and he thought he looked sad. 

“Aww, you’re right,” Arthur said. “I don’t know what I was thinkin’.” He licked his lips. He made to move his hand away from John’s face, but found that he couldn’t as John wrapped his fingers around his wrist. “John?”

John didn’t answer him. His heart was racing and he slowly pulled Arthur’s hand toward his mouth. He kissed his fingertips, felt Arthur’s pulse, and opened his mouth. His tongue rolled out to lick along the length of his fingers before he sucked two of them into his mouth. 

“ _ John, _ ” Arthur choked out, firmer. A warning. If he let this go further, he was sure there’d be no turning back. 

“Arthur,” John repeated back to him as he pulled Arthur’s fingers from his mouth, letting go of his wrist. He felt the man shiver, and for a brief moment, thought Arthur might lean in to kiss him with the way his thumb traced John’s bottom lip, hand cradling his jaw. Instead, the older outlaw slumped forward, his lips mere inches from John’s ear. 

“What about Abigail, John?” 

John pursed his lips. “We ain’t speakin’.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. It had been five days since she’d given him that shopping list. He hadn’t managed to find a good enough excuse for not picking up what she’d asked him to and he’d refused to admit that he couldn’t afford it. Instead, he’d picked a fight with her. Insisted that she nagged too much. That he wasn’t an errand boy. Needless to say, she was giving him the silent treatment.

Arthur took a deep breath in and his exhale was shaky. 

John could feel the heat coming off of his body the way Arthur had him boxed in against the tree. He could smell Arthur, too. Not just the whiskey or the tobacco. Underneath the usual smell of horses he carried, he could smell  _ Arthur _ . Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was something else. Either way, the tension was driving him wild. He felt Arthur’s hand settle on his waist, taking hold of the red fabric of his shirt. 

“You sure you want this, John?” Arthur asked him, and his hand crept slowly down his flank. 

John swallowed. 

“Answer me, boy.” Arthur commanded, his voice hoarse with his own masked desperation. He needed that clarification. 

“Yes.”

Arthur wasn’t sure what he had been expecting when he’d followed John into the brush. In fact, he hadn’t expected to follow him anywhere at all tonight. He certainly hadn’t expected whatever this was. Hadn’t expected to put his hand firmly between his legs, cupping him. Hadn’t expected to feel the heat radiating from there. Hadn’t expected the soft, almost missable sound John made when he rubbed his middle and ring finger along the seam of his pants. Definitely hadn’t expected the hands on his ass, groping him. He grunted at that, and brushed his knuckle teasingly over John’s fly. 

“You gonna be good?” he asked, his voice taking on a more possessive tone. 

“Yes.”

“You gonna keep quiet?” He undid the first button on John’s pants. There was a deeper meaning to that question. Both the immediate situation regarding whether or not they would be overheard as well as how well-kept a secret this affair was going to be. 

“No promises,” John answered. At least he was honest. 

Arthur chuffed a laugh. Undid another button. Something small skittered by. A squirrel, perhaps. He didn’t look. He didn’t care. He popped open the last button and stuck his hand inside, feeling up John through his drawers. They were damp. 

John huffed and tipped his head back until it connected with the tree. A few strands of hair got caught in the bark. He stared up at the stars that he could see through the breaks in the trees. Pretended that his face wasn’t heating up from the appreciative hum Arthur let out. “Listen, Arthur, it ain’t… it might be a little… different than what you’re used to,” he said, his hand coming up to rest on Arthur’s shoulder as the man kissed his way down from his ear to his collarbone. 

“I don’t care,” Arthur replied huskily and pushed his hand under the waistband of John’s drawers, past the bush of thin, wiry hairs, until he could feel the wetness of him on his fingers. Immediately, he felt what John had warned him about. He was much, much bigger than any woman he’d ever been with. He didn’t mind in the slightest, but it did pique his curiosity. He decided that he was going to need to get a better look. 

“Arthur. You don’t have to…” John trailed off, sucking in a breath as the other man sank to his knees in front of him. He watched Arthur tug his pants and drawers down until they were at his mid-thigh. He saw Arthur taking in what was in front of him, and the look on his face made his insides stir. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to turn and run, or grab him by the back of the head and use his mouth however he pleased. The man looked downright  _ hungry _ . 

“I know I don’t,” Arthur said simply, taking his hat off and setting it on the ground. He leaned in and kissed the junction of John’s hip. “I want to.”

John’s heartbeat picked up its pace and he had to grit his teeth to suppress the moan that tried to escape as Arthur leaned in, holding the front of his thighs, and took his clit into his mouth. His hips bucked forward involuntarily as Arthur suckled, humming in the back of his throat in a way that sent little vibrations through John’s sensitive tissue. 

Arthur responded by pushing on his inner thigh.

John took the hint and spread his legs what little more he could with his pants still most of the way on.

Arthur held his hips in place with one hand, pressing him back against the tree. His other hand slid up under his chin, between John’s folds, where he stroked over his hole. He pulled off of John’s clit, eliciting a quiet whine, and used his thumbs to spread him open. 

John took the hint and angled his hips forward to give him better access. 

Arthur’s eyes darted up to meet John’s, looking devilish in the moonlight, and he dipped his tongue into his hole. 

John gasped softly, and bit his knuckle. “Shit,” he cursed as he felt Arthur’s mouth working on him. The muscles in his thighs twitched, and Arthur must’ve felt it, because he pulled away. John’s wet was making his chin shiny. 

“You gonna come already?” Arthur chided him, and gave him a little tap before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t nobody been treating your cunt right? Is that it?” 

“Ain’t my fault you’re so good at that,” John answered, embarrassed by the teasing and yet all the more turned on by it. 

Arthur chuckled. He planted several soft kisses along John’s thigh. His hand came down to palm at himself through his pants. He nipped at the soft flesh of John’s inner thigh and looked up at him through his lashes. “You ready for the main course?” 

John nodded. “Please.” 

Arthur couldn’t resist. Not when he was asked so politely. He stood up and unbuckled his belt. 

John’s eyes fell to Arthur’s cock as he pulled it out. He bit his lip. Maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew. It wasn’t that he hadn’t already known Arthur was well-endowed. He’d lived with the man long enough in different situations that it was impossible for him to have not seen it before. It was entirely different, though, seeing him now at full-mast. He could just barely make out one of the prominent veins in the dim light, the flushed head, the thickness of it that came with the extra blood being pumped into it. He wanted. He  _ needed _ . 

“Like what you see?” Arthur teased him. Then, more firmly, he added, “Think you’ve seen enough. Now turn around.” He guided John by the hips until he had him positioned the way he wanted. Instructed him to lift his arms up, level them against the tree above his head. Used his hands to angle John’s hips out, arching the small of his back to give himself better access. He also knew it would provide an altogether better angle for the both of them. His hands were gentler than his words let on. He nudged the inside of John’s foot with the toe of his boot, signalling for him to spread his legs a little more, and John obeyed. “Atta boy,” he praised him. He whistled in a low tone. “Lookit’you. Oughta remember you like this.” 

John shivered as he felt Arthur’s hand on him again, collecting his wet on his fingers before pushing two inside of him. He felt Arthur spread them as he pulled them out and he couldn’t help the soft sound that escaped him. The anticipation made his skin buzz more than the whiskey did. 

Behind him, Arthur was using his wet to slick up his cock. It wasn’t quite enough, though, so he positioned himself right up against him. He guided his cock between John’s folds and slowly rubbed his length along him. He smirked at the way he could feel the younger man’s hole clench on his shaft, more wet leaking out over him. “Eager to start, ain’t ya, Johnny?” he asked and planted a kiss to his shoulder. 

“God. Hurry up, why don’t you?” John snapped. He couldn’t take much more teasing. Not with the way the ridge of Arthur’s tip rubbed up against his clit with each slide. 

“Alright, alright. I’m just havin’ some fun with ya.” Arthur lined himself up properly, gave a warning squeeze to John's hip, and then pressed in.

John moaned as he was slowly filled. 

Arthur wished they’d gone to one of their tents. At least in the candlelight, he’d be able to fully see John’s cunt stretch around his cock. “Shit, Marston,” he grunted. “You always been this tight?” 

John pressed his hips back against him. His walls squeezed around Arthur as he adjusted to the feeling. “Christ,” he hissed. 

Arthur gave him a moment before he started to pull out almost all the way. He pushed back in slowly, groaning, and set a steady pace as he rolled his hips into John. “You’re takin’ me so well,” he praised. “You could make a living doing this, I bet.”

“Fuck off.” 

Arthur chuckled and snapped his hips forward harder, smiling triumphantly as John let out a choked moan. “That’s what I thought.”

John started to push back against his thrusts as Arthur picked up the pace. He let out little “ _ Uh, uh, uh… _ ” sounds as the strokes of Arthur’s cock along his walls started to connect with that sweet spot inside him. 

“Quiet, boy. Someone’ll hear,” Arthur hushed him, warning. At this point, it was just as likely that someone might overhear the wet slaps of their flesh connecting. 

“I don’t care,” John huffed, the bark of the tree biting into his palms. 

Arthur leaned in and nipped at the spot where his neck met his shoulder. “Oh yeah?” he growled, and slipped his hand around John’s waist, finding his clit and stroking it in time with his thrusts. 

“Oh fuck-“ John gasped and ground his teeth. “Don’t stop,” he begged, and then, “Please.” 

Arthur could feel a familiar heat pooling in his gut, and he knew he should be preparing to pull out. But John was too good to resist, and he obliged him, continuing to rut against him, thrusting deep inside. 

John could feel the head of his cock kissing that spot inside him that made his toes curl in his boots with each thrust. He growled, his thighs trembling as he approached his finish. He felt the sudden need to pee. “Arthur, I’m gonna… I’m-“ he whined and Arthur hushed him. 

“Go on, then, boy. Come on my cock,” Arthur commanded, and a beat later felt a spurt of something wet splash against the front of his thighs. He continued to stroke John as he fucked him through his orgasm. “Good boy,” he groaned, another spurt soaking into his pants. He could feel John’s hole pulsing around him, and that was enough to push him over the edge. He bit into John’s shoulder and groaned, his hips stuttering as he came inside of him. He pressed his hips flush against John’s, his hands holding the other man back against him as he released his spend. 

The two of them were panting. The sounds around them seemed to come back into focus as their breathing slowed. Sean was still singing. There was more calamity around the poker table. Glass bottles clinked together. Crickets chirped somewhere in the brush. An owl hooted. A gentle breeze rolled over the cliff and rustled the trees. 

“Fuck.” John’s voice broke the silence between them. “Fucking…  _ Fuck _ ,” he cursed, and reached behind himself to push at Arthur’s hip. “Get off of me, Morgan.  _ Fuck _ .”

Arthur came back to reality, startled, and pulled out of John.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” John muttered.

Arthur was a little slow on the uptake, whiskey still buzzing in his skull. Then he realized what mistake had been made. His hands paused as he was buckling his belt. “ _ Shit _ …” he cursed. “I’m sorry, Marston. I was gonna, but then- well- you said not to stop and-“

“I know what I said, Arthur. You weren’t ‘sposed to listen.” John cut him off. He reached between his legs and felt himself. “Fuck,” he repeated. It was useless for him to do anything now. He didn’t even know what he could do beyond hope and pray up to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in. “God damn it,” he grunted and tugged his pants back up. 

Arthur scrubbed his hand over his face. “Maybe… Maybe nothing will happen,” he offered. He knew it was a lame response but he couldn’t be bothered to come up with a better one. 

John huffed a laugh but there was no humour in it. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He looked around for a moment and then sighed. “I’m gonna go down to the river and try and… I don’t know… Wash it out,” he said, scowling. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Arthur asked and received a scoff in response. It made his jaw tick. He was getting sick of that being John’s go-to reaction for him. 

“No, I don’t want you to come with me,” John said, staring at him like he’d just spit in his oatmeal. “I want you to be more careful next time.”

“Next time?” Now it was Arthur’s turn to scoff. “You think there’s gonna be a next time?” he snorted. “You really are dense, aren’t you?” 

The truth was that Arthur actually did hope that there would be a next time. Not that he would admit it. He couldn’t even admit it to himself. Instead he did what he always did—what was comfortable— and raised his hackles like a cornered animal. Turned to anger instead of confronting his feelings. Confronting what had led him into the brush after John in the first place. 

John clenched his fists. “Y'know what? I ain’t even gonna give you the satisfaction,” he spat, turning on his heel, and left. 

Arthur sighed once John disappeared down the hill. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What have you done now, Morgan?” He bent down and picked up his hat, dusting it off before plopping it back on his head.

“Have an accident, Arthur?” Sean’s voice came as Arthur passed Pearson’s wagon, tone coy and accent thicker with the alcohol in his system. 

Arthur was caught off-guard enough that he actually stopped in his tracks. “What?” 

Sean’s eyebrows raised and gestured down towards the front of Arthur’s pants, which, as he looked down, he realized were wet from John. His face heated up. “It’s alright, Arthur. It happens to everyone. Try a little more water, next time,” he offered sympathetically. 

“I didn’t _piss_ _myself,_ Sean.” Arthur snapped, insulted. That was a mistake.

The Irishman’s brow furrowed in confusion at first, but then his expression softened into something more pitiful. “Aye, sure ye didn’t. ‘Course not. Just a spill, then?” he offered him his ticket out. 

Arthur figured he must’ve assumed that he was just embarrassed about pissing his pants. The chances of him guessing the truth were slim, and Arthur was thankful for that, at least. “...Yeah,” he said. “Just a spill.” 

Sean raised his bottle of beer to him. “Goodnight, Arthur.” 

“Goodnight, Sean.” He dismissed himself and walked hurriedly the rest of the way to his tent. He pulled the canvas down and then changed his pants. Once he settled into his cot, he laid there a long while before he finally fell asleep. He didn’t listen for John’s return, but he heard the jingle of his spurs regardless as he crept into his own tent some time later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s about time someone finally had sex in this fic about an unplanned pregnancy! 
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it. >:)
> 
> as always, feedback is always welcome and appreciated!
> 
> looking forward to updating some time next week. heads up that updates may become less frequent as i try and tackle work and online schooling. im trying to set myself up now so that i will have content to publish at least once a week until this is over.


	4. Chapter 4: I’m Not A Good Person, Ask Anyone Who Loves Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t be serious. Even if I was, how would you even test it?” 
> 
> Hosea glanced up at the sky again. He saw the full moon starting to peek out from behind the mountain, its light slowly creeping across the ground towards where they were crouched. “I’m about to,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from I’m not a good person by Pat The Bunny

On the morning of May 25th, two days after Sean’s party, John felt perfectly fine. At least, physically he felt fine. He hadn’t spoken to Arthur since that evening under the tree and he was too preoccupied trying to work through his own thoughts to be concerned about how he felt emotionally. Which, if he  _ was _ concerned, wasn’t particularly great. There was also the issue of the fact that, despite him and Abigail still not speaking to each other, he felt a pang of guilt every time he looked at her. Sure, their relationship was turbulent, but he knew that he owed her more than he gave. He at least owed her enough respect to fess up if he was going to go and cheat on her. He was thankful that she was giving him the silent treatment. It meant that he didn’t have to confess yet. It also meant that he didn’t have to lie to her, either. 

Even if she hadn’t already been angry with him, she would have been by dinner time. As the day had gone by, he’d found himself getting more and more agitated by simple things. It really didn’t help that he had spent the last three-and-a-half weeks trapped in camp, being assigned to his cot, not allowed to complete any task more strenuous than a simple chore. He hated sitting around on his hands. It led him to drinking, which only resulted in more arguments between him and Abigail. He was quick to grow stir-crazy, that part wasn’t unusual, but this time it was  _ really _ bad. He felt like he was going to start foaming at the mouth if he didn’t get the hell away from everyone and all of their noise and activity. 

He felt like Arthur was rubbing it in his face, too, even though he knew it couldn’t be the case. The man just liked to do chores when he wasn’t out doing what only he and his journal knew he did. Even still, John would tap his foot, irritated, as he watched the other outlaw walk back and forth in front of his tent to put hay out for the horses or to bring sacks of corn to Pearson’s wagon. 

It wasn’t until late that afternoon, when Bill had made a comment to him as he sat brooding at the poker table, that John finally snapped. Charles had jumped up and pulled him back, wrestling the knife from him that he’d threatened to gut Bill with. He had caused enough of a ruckus to catch Hosea’s attention and the old man had come over, put a firm hand on his shoulder, and asked him if he wanted to go hunting. 

  
  


The ride North had been mostly quiet. Hosea always had a way of carrying himself in such a reserved and patient manner that John would eventually cave in and start talking about whatever was bothering him. Hosea’s patience was key, because John wasn’t very good with putting his thoughts into words, and he never interjected to try and guess what the young outlaw was attempting to say. Hosea always let him take his time and work through it. John appreciated it more than he would ever admit. However, Hosea would, more often than not, need to ask questions just open-ended enough that it would encourage John to get to the root of the problem. Of course, John didn’t always take the bait when it was offered. He wasn’t always ready to. Hosea normally saw right through his silence, though, and usually had just the right answer to the response John couldn’t say aloud. 

“We really thought we were gonna lose you back there in Colter, John,” Hosea said easily. He was checking over his supplies, making sure that his rifle was oiled properly, and that it was loaded. They were after a bear. A big beastly bastard of a bear, at that. He’d shown John a map of animals that were supposed to be worth a lot more than others of their species, spread all across the neighbouring states. 

John looked up at him.

“Think that’s why she’s giving you such a hard time about those wounds of yours,” Hosea continued. He met John’s eyes briefly. “I’m glad you seem to be healing up alright,” he said. “Seems like there were some interesting side effects, too. Haven’t heard you complaining so much about those scars since you started getting that scruff all over your face.” 

John pursed his lips and took the predator bait that he was tossed. He was so thrown off by Hosea’s statement that he didn’t notice the fact that his stomach growled at the smell of it. He didn’t notice that, although he was standing six feet away, he could smell the mint that Hosea was chewing. He didn’t notice the buzzing of his skin as the sun began to slowly creep behind one of the mountains, towards the horizon. 

“Seen a lot of strange things in my time. But I must say, John, that ain’t one of ‘em,” Hosea continued casually. 

“What ain’t one of ‘em?” John asked.

“Well, for starters, I can’t say I’ve met many folk like you, John, with the way you present yourself,” Hosea paused, inspecting the trail he’d been leading them along. “Bear can’t be far, keep an eye out,” he said, and then continued with, “but I’m certain it ain’t exactly normal for them to suddenly start sprouting a beard.” 

John watched him curiously. “You got an idea, then?” he asked. “About the cause?” 

Hosea was quiet for a while, which irked John a little. Just as he was about to ask the old man again, Hosea lifted his hand to him, stopping in his tracks. “Let’s place the bait here. We can hide behind that rock over there,” he said. 

John did as he was told, and followed him over to crouch behind the rock. 

“I’ve done a lot of reading in my years, John, and I’ve found some interesting theories about some of the mysteries of this world,” Hosea said quietly, watching the tree line just past the clearing they’d placed the bait in carefully. “I remembered, well, I was reminded by your condition in Colter, a book of old folk tales. Strange creatures and places. Fables, mostly, intended to scare children into submission.”

“And?” John asked, feeling more on-edge now than before. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. His skin was maddeningly itchy, and his clothes felt too tight all of a sudden. He was aching for something to happen, some excitement, because so far this hunting trip wasn’t much better than sitting around camp.

“About three hundred years ago, there were trials in France. Like the witch trials, but for a type of… people called  _ lycans _ . These were people believed to have been put under a curse by a witch, that turned them into wolves,” Hosea explained slowly. 

“And you read this in a book?” John asked skeptically. 

“Now, it may sound crazy, but you’ve been showing a lot of the supposed symptoms, John, and I think that whatever happened to you up on that mountain may have turned you into one of those people. A werewolf, if you will,” Hosea looked at John now and it was clear how much he believed in what he was saying. John could see the fear in his eyes. He caught him looking up at the mountain, towards where the sun had disappeared. 

“A  _ werewolf _ ? Like, like Dracula? Or Frankenstein?” John didn’t recognize the word “lycan”, but he did recognize that one

Hosea’s brow knitted together. “Yes, John. A werewolf.” 

“You can’t be serious. Even if I was, how would you even test it?” 

Hosea glanced up at the sky again. He saw the full moon starting to peek out from behind the mountain, its light slowly creeping across the ground towards where they were crouched. “I’m about to,” he said. 

John squinted at him. “There was never a bear, was there?”

“There was last week, when Arthur and I came out here to kill it. That’s why I knew this would be a good spot. Takes a little while for a new predator to move into the territory after you kill one that big,” he explained. 

John didn’t respond. He couldn’t, not when he felt a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He doubled over on the ground, groaning, and dropped his rifle. His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, and a sharp pain pierced through his temples. He looked up at Hosea in a panic, but couldn’t express what he was feeling. The old man was frowning in the way one did whenever they watched their loved one endure pain that they knew they couldn’t stop. 

Hosea watched John as his body transformed in front of him. 

John’s back arched up like a cat and his jacket and shirt tore in half as each knob of his spine stretched and grew, threatening to poke through the skin. He was wailing now, his face contorting into a canine shape and his jaw snapping open and shut as his teeth got longer and sharper. Drool hung out in long strands over his lips, which were curled back in a snarl from the pain, and dripped onto the ground. Fur was rapidly sprouting over his entire body and what remained of his clothes hung in tatters off of him. His bones made horrible snapping sounds as they cracked into place, his form changing completely. His boots were ruined, now just a heap of leather on the ground, torn and crushed beneath monstrous, clawed feet. The whole ordeal took only a matter of minutes and finished with him howling up at the moon. 

Hosea stood calmly, cautiously, as he was face-to-face with the beast in front of him. He realized that he was vastly underprepared, his grip tightening around his rifle, which held two rounds of silver. The thing in front of him was horrifying and magnificent. It was standing on two legs, joints shaped similarly to the way a horse’s were, and was a bit top-heavy. It hunched like an ape, it’s arms hanging low at its sides with long claws at the ends of its fingers. It was still mostly humanoid, which Hosea hadn’t expected, even despite it’s muzzle and pointed ears. The only thing that would’ve told him that it was John had he not witnessed the transformation, was that it had the same scars stretched across its face. He watched its hackles raise and he swallowed as it growled at him. As he quickly realized that he didn’t have the heart to kill the man he thought of as his son, beast or not, he prayed for a quick death.

  
  


Arthur was back at the Valentine saloon. He wasn’t particularly happy about it, especially not when he’d seen Tommy sitting at one of the tables, but it was better than going to Strawberry to bail Micah out. Damned bastard could rot, for all he cared, but Dutch wouldn’t have it. Arthur didn’t know what Dutch saw in Micah. He was reckless, violent, and hot-headed— which was saying something coming from Arthur. They didn’t need the heat from the law for killing random people, especially not now of all times, and for that alone Arthur thought Micah deserved anything he got. Even more so considering the fact that he’d been either slow or stupid enough to end up in jail. He’d even risked Lenny’s life, which Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if that had been somewhat intentional. It wasn’t like Micah ever tried to hide the fact that he was racist. Another reason for Arthur to dislike him. He sipped at his whiskey, and was happy for the distracting burn in his throat. 

The unfortunate effect of the whiskey was that the more he drank, the more his thoughts shifted from Micah to John. Now  _ that _ was a whole different world of problems for him. More complicated ones, too. No one had caught them, save for Sean noticing Arthur’s wet pants, but it was nearly impossible to avoid the man when they slept about ten feet away from each other. He tapped on the bar and let the bartender refill his glass. 

A few drinks later, he lost Lenny. He was mid-sentence when he turned and realized the young man had wandered off. He found him on the second-floor balcony, trying to balance a glass on his head, and watched as it crashed to the floor below. The two of them burst out into laughter. They finished two more beers, and that was when the night started to get a little spotty. 

“Why ain’t you ever married?” Lenny asked him, his words slurring. 

Arthur stared out over the bar patrons below. “No one would have me,” he sighed. 

“Aww, c’mon now, that can’t be true,” Lenny tried to reassure him, leaning heavily against his side, causing Arthur to stumble slightly, and the two of them swayed for a second before they corrected themselves. 

Arthur chuckled. “Nah, it ain’t worth the trouble,” he said. “That’s the problem with love and romance, always so much trouble,” he scratched at his jaw with his knuckle. 

Lenny laughed. “You’s always gonna have trouble, Arthur,” he said, and leaned in. “You’s an outlaw. ‘S right there in the name,” he whispered. 

“You think trouble’s in the word outlaw? You hearin’ yourself, boy?” Arthur teased him. 

“Not the point,” Lenny grinned, and pushed himself off of Arthur to lean his back against the rail. He looked thoughtful for a moment, staring at the wall. “I don’t think love’s too much trouble,” he said. “Even for an outlaw.” His brow furrowed as he tried to hold onto his train of thought. “I think… I think there’s a lotta trouble in the world, but… But you gotta choose… I think at some point you gotta choose whether or not you wanna let that trouble rule your life,” he nodded slowly, as if hearing himself say it was affirmation for himself. “I mean, these times ain’t great for anyone, even if they ain’t outlaws. Just normal folk. But… But people still find time for love,” he said. He looked over at Arthur. “You love anyone, Arthur?” 

The question was a little too on-the-nose for him. He didn’t like it because he didn’t have an answer. He was even unhappier about the fact that, as far as he was concerned, the answer should have been “no,” and yet for some reason it just wasn’t that simple. He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the railing. “Let’s have another drink.” He clapped his hand on Lenny’s shoulder and grinned at him. 

The rest of their night came in and out in blurbs. The more they drank, the more rowdy they became. At some point they, and several of the other patrons, engaged in a Can-Can line. 

Shortly after, Arthur, with his arm still slung around Lenny’s shoulders, patted the young man on the chest. “M’gonna go for a piss,” he told him and wandered towards the side exit. He swayed as he made his way into the little alley and had to lean against the wall to keep himself from falling. He pushed himself upright and shuffled down the side of the building a little bit until he was further from the door. He cleared his throat and huffed out of his nose as he fumbled with the buttons on his pants. He didn’t even bother to check if anyone else was around. He didn’t really care. 

He let out a satisfied sigh as he began to relieve himself on the wall. He was still swaying a little, but not enough to lose his balance. 

“Hey mister,” a voice came from the shadows.

Arthur jumped at the sound, a bit of piss splashing on his boot as he moved, and he tsked himself. “Can’t you see I’m a little busy here, partner?” he grumbled, glancing sideways at the stranger that he now noticed was leaned against the wall, smoking. He turned himself away a little, squaring his shoulders.

“You ain’t look too busy to me,” the stranger replied casually, moving into the light somewhat. 

Arthur glanced at him again, still pissing, and saw that he was a fairly young man. Couldn’t have been much older than twenty, if he were to guess. Still young enough to feel invincible. Bold, and stupid, too, Arthur thought, judging by the way the man had yet to learn not to let his eyes linger the way that they did. Handsome enough, he would give him that, but cocky. Had a sun-touched face full of freckles that told Arthur he was probably the son of some local farmer. Tall and lean, with square shoulders. Probably did a lot of heavy lifting. He had curly hair that was cropped short, and ears that stuck out kind of funny. Arthur simply grunted in response and shook himself off. He tucked himself back into his pants. 

“You want a smoke, mister?” the stranger asked, and pulled one from his pack, extending it out to Arthur. 

Arthur accepted it and ignored the way the stranger seemed to intentionally brush their fingers together as he passed it off to him. He felt around his jacket pockets for his matchbox, but before he could find it, the stranger stepped closer and lit one for him, holding it up to the smoke dangling from his lips. “Thanks,” Arthur mumbled. 

“You from ‘round here?” the man asked.

Arthur eyed him suspiciously. “What’s it to you?” 

“Nothin’,” he said. “Just makin’ conversation. You looked approachable,” 

Arthur snorted, and rubbed his thumb in the hollow of where his brow met his nose, as if it would help clear his head. 

When Arthur didn’t say anything, the stranger continued. “Seen ya inside. That yer friend?” 

“Maybe. Why?”

The stranger laughed. “You ain’t very talkative, are ya?” he asked, and then looked Arthur up and down, appraising him. He was quiet for a moment before he asked, “You a friend of Mister Wilde?”

Arthur bristled. He’d already clued in to what the man was after when he’d approached, looking at Arthur like that. To have him ask so boldly, though, assuming Arthur would know what he was talking about, Arthur didn’t like. He was offended that he would appear to anyone as someone that they could approach and ask without fear of being killed outright. He worked his jaw and gave the man a cold look. “Why? What business is it of yours?” 

The stranger raised a placating hand. “I just seen ya inside with that feller and thought you might be-“

Arthur surged forward and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “Don’t,” he growled, glaring down at him. “Whatever you’re about to say? Don’t,” he said. “Because I promise you if you do, you ain’t gonna like what happens,” he threatened. 

There was no fear in the man’s eyes. “You sure you ain’t interested?” he asked, then put his hand on the front of Arthur’s pants. “Because you can be rough with me, I don’t mind,” he said. 

Arthur was so shocked that he recoiled immediately. He stumbled backwards a step, and reflexively wiped his hands off on his shirt. His palms were sweaty. He ignored the way his body had excitedly reacted, and shook his head, dumbfounded. “Stay away from me,” he said, and retreated back into the saloon. 

“Lenny?!” he called out, wandering up the stairs. “Hey, have you seen my friend?” he asked one of the people standing around. “Lenny?” he called out again. He was a little panicked now and kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see the stranger there. The bold, attractive stranger. He shook the thought from his head. “Lenny, my boy, where are you?!” 

“Arthur!” Lenny exclaimed as he grabbed him from behind, spinning him around. 

“Lenny,” Arthur said. “Let’s go home,” 

“One more round, Arthur, c’mon!” Lenny encouraged him, and held his hands up, which Arthur now saw were holding two bottles. “I already ordered our drinks,” he insisted. 

Arthur relented. “Alright, just one more.”

They didn’t have just one more. 

The last thing Arthur remembered was leaving the saloon, losing Lenny one last time as they ran from the law, clambering over a fence and retreating some ways away into the hills. He remembered laying in the grass under a tree, staring up at the full moon until he fell asleep. 

  
  


It was a full week before John and Arthur spoke. They were forced to when Hosea had brought them into Dutch’s tent to discuss what had happened the night John and Hosea had gone hunting. The night of, John had made a big show of growling and snapping at Hosea and had lunged at him. However, as he’d stood hunched over top of him, ready to rip his entrails out, he smelled the mint and tobacco, and Hosea had seen a change in him. A sign of recognition. Hosea had nearly pissed himself in fright, and then again in relief. Almost, but not quite. John had tried to speak, but couldn’t, and instead ran off into the woods at an incredible speed. Hosea had tracked him for two hours before he found him hunched over a deer that he’d torn to shreds. He’d felt sick, knowing that it was still John eating that carcass, but he’d watched in fascination. 

John had transformed back into a human at dawn, and didn’t remember most of his night. Some of it came back to him in flashes, but the rest was a blur. He’d woken up naked as the day he was born, covered only by a blanket Hosea had put on his sleeping form. Hosea had explained to him then that he’d come back at some point near the end of the night, smelling the rabbit cooking on the fire, Hosea supposed, and had curled up beside him and fallen asleep. Hosea had covered him once he’d changed back, which he still wasn’t sure how he’d slept through, as painful as it had been to watch. 

Since then, Hosea had regathered his collection of books related to folklore and strange diseases, and had prepared an explanation for the others. It had taken a few hours of hushed arguing and whispering between him and Dutch before they finally decided that it would be a need-to-know basis. Dutch had tried to work John’s “abilities” into some sort of plan, but they’d ultimately decided that it would be too much of a risk to use him against their enemies. They still didn’t know everything about his condition. 

There were still some differing opinions by the end, but the one thing that they’d all decided on was that under no circumstances should Jack ever be allowed to witness what his father became on full moons. That was their only fail-safe as well. The fact that they could track his transformations. 

The part that John was most happy about was the fact that he’d been officially deemed healthy enough to be allowed on jobs again. So long as he watched his temper and stress as best he could, things would be fine. At least until they knew for sure whether he would or could transform outside of the full moon.

“So… You turn into a wolf every month now?” Arthur asked awkwardly. His head was still spinning from the whole ordeal. They were sitting at the scout fire, eating oatmeal. Hosea and Dutch had shooed them out of Dutch’s tent to discuss matters further. 

John sighed. “Less of a wolf. More of a monster,” he said.

Arthur chuckled. “A monster every month? Hell, that ain’t too different from normal for you,” he teased. 

John punched him in the arm. “Don’t be an asshole, Morgan,” he said. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just so strange,” Arthur replied, sounding distant. He looked over at John curiously. “So is that why you got a beard, now?”

John made a weird face for a moment, his brow twitching. He’d been trying not to think about the last time Arthur had commented on his change in appearance. He didn’t answer, just spooned another serving of oats into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “Among other things, yeah.” 

Arthur hummed. He dug his spoon around his bowl a bit, but didn’t take another bite. “You ain’t… You happy?” he asked, and then clarified with, “About the change?” 

John looked over at him. “Maybe not so happy about being a monster, no. But… Wouldn’t you be?” he asked.

Arthur looked at him sympathetically, and then looked away when he caught himself. “We’re all monsters, John,” he said. 

John sighed and went back to eating. Despite the canned peaches he’d claimed from Pearson’s wagon and added to his oatmeal, he found that he couldn’t get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. Something about sitting beside Arthur like this, talking about something serious while also ignoring the other thing between them, just didn’t sit right with him. He scowled into his bowl. He didn’t like pretending that nothing had happened. He wasn’t ever any good at acting and he disliked anything he wasn’t good at. What bothered him more was that Arthur seemed not only to be good at pretending, but completely unbothered by it. His spoon scraped at the bottom of his bowl as he dug into his food a little more aggressively. 

“Your face is gonna get stuck if you keep it like that. You got somethin’ you wanna say, Marston?” Arthur suddenly snapped, dropping his spoon into his oatmeal with a wet plop. 

John met his eyes briefly. “Do you?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me the drama, would you? Just spit it out.” 

John scowled at him. “I just thought that maybe we should at least acknowledge it,” he said.

“Acknowledge what, exactly, John?” Arthur said through gritted teeth. His tone was challenging. 

“Sean’s party. In the bush. When we-”

“Don’t,” Arthur cut him off, and John could see his knuckles turning white around his bowl. 

“Don’t  _ what _ , Arthur?” John spat.

“Don’t say it,” he warned him.

“What? That we f-” John couldn’t finish his sentence because the next thing he knew, he was being hoisted up by the fur lapels of his jacket. Two bowls of oatmeal splattered onto the grass. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Arthur hissed. His face was mere inches away from John’s. They were locked in a harsh stare-down. “What? You think now ‘cause you got some sorta super power you can just go around sayin’ whatever you feel like? Whenever and wherever? Think them wolves ate part of your brain,” he berated him. 

John shoved at his chest, but Arthur tugged him back in. “Fuck you. When else am I supposed to talk about it when you keep avoidin’ me like the plague?” John growled.

“Avoidin’ you?” Arthur scoffed, then squinted at him. “Don’t give yourself so much credit, Marston. I’ve been busy workin’. I have a little something called ‘responsibility’. Somethin’ I’m sure you ain’t too familiar with,” he spat, and let go of John. 

“Well, when then?” John asked. “Tell me when I’m supposed to talk to you about it. ‘Cause last I checked that ain’t ever happened before and it’s usually somethin’ most folk like to discuss,” he threw his arms up helplessly, frustrated. 

Arthur stepped into his space again. “Never, that’s when,” he growled. “We pretend it didn’t happen.” He prodded him with a finger, which John swatted away. “We do that, you make nice with your wife, and we go on like normal,” he said slowly.

“Abigail ain’t my wife. How many times I gotta tell you that?” 

Arthur chuckled humourlessly. “Well somebody oughta tell her that, then, ‘cause I’m pretty sure she thinks she is.” 

John huffed, and looked away from him. Arthur was still standing a little too close for comfort. A side effect of his condition meant he could smell just about every part of him. The oatmeal. The tobacco. The alcohol from the night before. The remaining pomade in his hair. His horse. Something came over him that made him lose all steam, no longer invested in their argument. He didn’t even feel angry anymore. Just defeated. 

Arthur must’ve seen the change in his posture, because he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t wanna pursue this, John. I promise,” he said. “I’m not a nice man. You know this.”

“Do I?” John asked before he could stop himself. 

Arthur frowned at him again, his back stiffening. “This, whatever  _ this _ is? It ends here, John,” he said more firmly. “I’m sorry.” 

Something about the apology made John’s throat feel tight and his mouth dry. If Arthur insisted that there was nothing to discuss, nothing between them, he didn’t know what there was to apologize for. Still, as Arthur picked up his bowl and turned to walk away, John clenched his fists and said, “No, you ain’t.” 

Arthur paused, just for a second, but didn’t turn around. He sounded amused, yet there was no real humour in it when he replied, “No, you’re right. I’m not.” 

John watched him walk to Pearson’s wagon to put his dish in the wash bin. He put a smoke between his lips and lit it with shaky hands, shaking the match out and flicking it to the ground. He wished now, more than ever, that he’d come clean with Abigail already. At least she could’ve talked some sense into him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing the transformation in this chapter was really fun I hope you all enjoyed :) more coming soon!


	5. Chapter 5: This Is Just Not What You Wanted At This Point In Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The same thoughts he’d had all day, looking at Javier and Arthur on their horses. Weighing the options whenever he could let his mind wander. It was Arthur, though. Arthur, who was just too God damn similar to himself. Arthur, who had just as much of the same childhood trauma as he did, just without the identity crisis as soon as he hit puberty. Arthur, who was across camp, getting forced into a discussion he didn’t want to have with Micah and Dutch, yet seemed so much further away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Wolfman by The Front Bottoms

Clemens Point was nice enough, all things considered. Pretty piece of land, hidden from the roads by trees, and a nice view of Flat Iron Lake. The sunsets were gorgeous, both in the way that the sky became painted with all kinds of pinks and oranges, as well as the fact that it signalled the coming of night. That was when the cool air would roll in off the water and refresh everyone just enough to make up for the Southern summer heat. The mornings were nice, too, when the sun was still low enough in the sky to bring warmth without it beating down. Being so close to the water, the humidity was the worst of it all, along with the bugs, but they weren’t in the swamp, so no one could complain too much. They still did, of course, but that was to be expected. 

It was early July by the time John realized he was in trouble. The last full moon had come at the end of June, and he’d been so focused on worrying about that— especially since, at the time, they’d just settled into their new camp due to some unfortunate circumstances involving an oil man, a train robbery, and their subsequent flight from Valentine— that he had forgotten that his other monthly visit had been due as well. 

It wasn’t until after the move that he’d realized it hadn’t come. He’d told himself then that he must’ve just been too busy to really notice. That he must’ve dealt with it as it came and went without paying it much mind, the same way he usually did, seeing as he’d been so preoccupied with his other problems.

However, as he woke up that morning, he knew something wasn’t right. His knuckles gripped at the edge of his cot as he desperately tried to convince himself that he wasn’t going to be sick. His stomach gurgled and he squeezed his eyes shut tight as if by doing so he would wake up again and be fine. He pressed his face into his old, beaten pillow, trying to block out the smell of coffee drifting through camp. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he heaved once, twice, before he sprung up from his cot. His boots scraped in the dirt as he scrambled out of his tent, hand over his mouth. He turned sharply, heading for the water. He used the back of one of the chairs at the poker table to push himself forward, his stomach lurching, and made it as far as the tree behind it before he heaved again, chunks of vomit spewing out between his fingers. He clung to the bark of the large tree to keep himself upright as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground. 

He panted, having to shut his eyes again because the sight of it wasn't making him feel any better. His head was spinning and as his brain started to finally wake up, a terrifying thought settled in his gut like the camp stew when the meat had started to turn. One that made him feel sick all over again. Despite the warm air, he felt a cold sweat as he realized with horror what this meant. He’d been here before. This was morning sickness. He was pregnant. Again. He ran the numbers in his head, forcing himself to try and think clearly as this was very important, and came to the conclusion that he had to be about six or seven weeks pregnant. 

“Long night?” Dutch’s voice came from a little ways behind him.

John grunted and stood up straighter, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He kicked some dirt over the mess he’d made. “Something like that,” he said. 

Dutch blew a puff of smoke from his cigar. “And the morning had been so beautiful,” he mused. “Go on and see Strauss if you’re sick. Can’t have you coming down with something now. I need you at your best,”

John gave him a thumbs up. He wasn’t really listening. He had more important things to think about. 

“I mean it. I’ve got big plans for you boys. I’m hearing some promising things about these Grays and Braithwaites.” 

“I’m fine, Dutch,” John insisted as he made his way back towards his tent. He was awake now, and figured he may as well get dressed. He also needed to clean his hand. He saw Arthur sitting on his cot as he approached his tent. 

“You okay, Marston?” Arthur asked, glancing up at him from his journal.

“I’m fine,” John grunted.

“You look like shit,” Arthur said.

“Fuck off,” John answered and disappeared into his tent.

“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Arthur mumbled more to himself than to John. He looked up from his journal again at the movement in front of him and saw Abigail approaching. 

“John sick?” she asked, concern and annoyance etched onto her face. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “Watch out, he’s in a bitin’ mood,” he teased, then chuckled, amused at himself. 

Abigail rolled her eyes at him and entered John’s tent. He was buttoning up his pants when he turned and saw her. 

“Christ,” he said. “Can’t a man have a moment of peace?” he huffed, exasperated, as he tugged his shirt on over his head. He tucked the tight undershirt into his pants before sliding his belt through the loops. 

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” Abigail chided him. “I seen you by the tree, pukin’ your guts out.” She folded her arms over her chest. “You ain’t one for gettin’ sick. Not from drink,” she said. “You eat somethin’ funny? Drinkin’ the lake water raw again?” 

John’s brow knitted together. “No,” he said. “What is the big deal? Seriously. Dutch, Arthur, now you? Everyone’s got somethin’ to say about it this morning.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke.

Abigail stepped closer to him, squinting up at his face, trying to discern what illness might have befallen him. “You ain’t pale,” she stated and put her wrist up to his forehead before he could stop her. “No fever, either,” she said. “This some... side effect? You eatin’ raw meat again? Hosea said you mauled and ate a boar last week. A whole boar. Picked it clean. And you more’n anyone should know what kinds of diseases animals could be carryin’,” 

John nudged her hand away. “Abigail, ain’t nothin’ more wrong with me than yesterday. Or any other day. Swear. Just quit it, would you? You’re stressin’ me out,” he said and tried to move around her to exit the tent. 

She stepped to the side and blocked his path. “John Marston, I am  _ worried _ about you. You’ve been actin’ strange ever since we moved the camp,” she insisted. 

“Well ain’t nobody asked you to worry, did they?” John snapped. He immediately regretted it as he saw her face falter.

“Look, I know…” she sighed. “I know you and I ain’t… Well, we weren’t ever really anything official, but…” she trailed off, wringing her hands in front of her. “You ain’t needed to say it. I know you ain’t love me anymore. And that’s okay. But I’m still gonna worry about you, John. Even when you’re being sour.” 

John pursed his lips. “That ain’t…” 

“It’s okay, John,” Abigail cut him off. “I know you’re going through a lot right now. I ain’t mean to be so pushy. I just thought, oh, I don’t know… Maybe you might wanna talk about it if somethin’s makin’ you sick.” 

John frowned. He felt transparent at that moment. He always knew Abigail had a strange talent to see right through his bullshit. It made him feel sick to think about lying to her. He felt like shit. Not just because of the way he’d made her feel, what she’d said to him, but because he knew she was right. He didn’t love her anymore. Maybe he hadn’t for a while now. Their relationship had never been healthy. At least not since he’d left Jack with her for a whole year. Maybe some part of him did still love her; he could feel it when he saw the pain in her eyes. Still, to face it head-on, to acknowledge that it was broken, made his outer shell crumble. He knew it wouldn’t fix it now, but he had to be honest with her. “I’m late,” he said and sat down on his cot.

Abigail’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “What?” she asked.

“I’m  _ late _ , Abigail,” he repeated, giving her a hard stare. 

It took her a moment, but he saw the realization appear on her face. “Oh, John,” she said softly. She looked disappointed, yet sympathetic. She wasn’t stupid, and John knew this, so it was no doubt that she knew what it meant. The only possible way for him to even know he was late now was if he’d slept with someone before they’d moved. Before the two of them had unofficially broken up. She sat down next to him. “Do you know who…?” she asked.

John knew it was a valid question, considering his history, so he wasn’t offended. He knew the answer, but he wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. He also wasn’t sure if he was ready for her to know that there was only one possibility. For some reason, the idea that he’d gotten drunk with some random man at a saloon was easier to admit to than the truth. Maybe there was something about the passing of blame. Or not being able to confront the other party. It was more appealing, and easier to swallow, if the consequences he had to face weren’t sitting some-odd feet away. “I think so,” he said. It wasn’t completely a lie, at least. 

Abigail put a hand on his knee. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “I can’t really do anything about it that won’t kill me,” 

“Are you going to tell anyone? Dutch and Hosea will have to know sooner or later. Especially if they wanna put you on jobs.” 

John sighed. “I don’t know yet. I don’t think I will. Not until I have to,” he said. The thought of being taken off of jobs was disappointing. He’d just been put back on them and didn’t want to go back to being stuck in camp. 

Abigail was quiet for a moment, then looked up at him again. “Is your whole transformation thing going to affect it, you think?” she asked.

John scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve had one already and I ain’t been bleedin’ so I don’t think I hurt anythin’,” he explained. 

Abigail nodded and patted his leg. “Well, this is one hell of a mess, John Marston, I'll tell you what.” She smiled at him affectionately. “You sure got some strange luck,” she teased, then looked at him again more seriously. “I love you, even if we ain’t a couple no more. I’ll be here for you if you need me. I mean it.”

John wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into an awkward sideways hug. “You’re too good to me, Abigail,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, patting his back. She stood up and smoothed out her skirt. “You missed a button.” She pointed it out on his shirt, then left the tent.

John glanced down at the offending button and fixed it. He sighed heavily and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “What the Hell am I gonna do?” he asked the air. He supposed that if it became necessary, the first person he would have to tell would be Hosea. The problem was that the old man would roughly know his whereabouts during the window of conception. John had still technically been assigned bed rest at the time. That was fine, except that it eliminated any chance of John pretending he didn’t know who the father was. It narrowed it down to the men in camp, and that was too small a pond for his liking. 

He remembered sitting down in front of Hosea and Dutch, just barely twenty-two, and trying to convince them that he hadn’t been taken advantage of by anyone. That was almost harder for them to swallow, or so it had seemed, because it meant that it was John’s fault that he would be out of commission for big jobs. Not that they had ever wished something that horrible would’ve happened to him, but at least then they could’ve blamed someone else. He remembered thinking then how much he disliked the possibility of it being one of the men in camp. Really, he’d thought, who were his options? Bill? Javier? Pearson? Arthur? 

Now he just thought it was ironic. It had been bad enough to even consider that possibility back then. If he thought about it now, he felt sick. His mind flooded with unwanted thoughts of being trapped under Bill, or Micah, or whoever else in camp made his skin crawl. He had to stop himself, or else he worried he might actually vomit again. He sat up, fished his pack of smokes from his shirt pocket, and lit one as he stepped out of his tent. He shook the match out and flicked it into the grass, looking around the camp. He wasn’t going to lie, he knew that already, but he couldn’t help but wonder if his problems might be a little easier if he’d knocked boots with someone else. He saw Charles standing by the fire drinking coffee. Now there was a kind, strong, man, he thought. He saw Kieran tending to the horses. Just as skittish and nervous as some of the animals, tameable, and if John wanted to he could always bully him into silence. He saw Uncle snoring by the tree and that thought actually amused him more than it grossed him out. At the very least, he wouldn’t have ended up pregnant. He blew out a puff of smoke and spared a glance at Arthur’s tent, which he realized now was empty. 

He felt his chest tighten and he puffed on his cigarette some more. He hated him, he thought. He hated how he could just walk around confidently, pretending like nothing had ever happened. He hated that he would talk to John over dinner, try to have a normal conversation, surrounded by their friends as if he didn’t know what it felt like to be buried inside him. He hated that when he laid awake late at night, kept up by the stirring in his bones that were still adjusting to changing shape and Dutch’s snoring one tent over, he wished he could crawl into Arthur’s cot beside him. He hated that he imagined himself squeezing in close, resting his head on his chest and maybe, finally, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. He hated that he wanted him. Even though he put a stupid baby inside him and just got to strut around, no consequences, no burden. He hated that, as much as he tried, he didn’t really hate Arthur at all. 

He flicked his butt to the ground and crushed it under the heel of his boot, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He had shit to do. Horses to steal, apparently, if what he’d heard was right. He made his way over to where Javier was sitting, applying oleander to his throwing knives to poison them. “Are we going to the Braithwaites’ today?”

Javier looked up at him. “Yeah, I’m almost finished,” he said. “We gotta go see Old Man Gray first, though.”

John had been briefed by Hosea about the feud between Sheriff Gray and Catherine Braithwaite. Some hillbilly nonsense and rumours about Confederate Gold. He didn’t see much point in pursuing both sides at the same time, but he wasn’t much for big, convoluted plans either. As long as he had something to shoot at, he didn’t need much more explanation than that. Although, he wished he’d been invited along to see  _ Melvin and Fenton _ at work. From what he’d heard, it had been a great show. He also liked the idea of Arthur not speaking for once. 

“Let’s go,” Javier said as he stood up, heading towards their mounts. 

John followed him, watched him climb up onto Boaz as he settled himself in Old Boy’s saddle. He let Javier take the lead as they went down the trail, heading East away from camp. “Have you been to Caliga Hall before?” he asked as the trees thinned out and he was able to trot up alongside him as they entered the clearing. 

“Not really,” Javier replied. “Not as welcoming to my type as yours,” he added, and John could see the little bit of tension in his shoulders and hands as he said it. 

“Right,” John said. That was another thing he missed about being further North. “They ain’t wanted me to do too much poking around. My ugly mug’s a little too easy to remember now,” he joked. 

“It’s a good thing Arthur’s meeting us there, then,” Javier grinned at him, and if he saw the same tension mirrored in John’s grip on his reign, he didn’t show it. 

“Great,” John tried his best to hide his sarcasm. “Suppose the Sheriff will be turning a blind eye while his new Deputy steals some horses, then?” he added, moving his horse behind Javier’s as they passed a wagon going the opposite direction. 

“That’s the plan,” Javier called back to him as soon as the wagon passed. 

  
  
  
  


“Where the Hell is he?” John asked impatiently, checking his pocket watch which reflected the sun’s light back into his eyes. “We’ve been waiting here for hours,” he grumbled. By now, he could’ve burnt a hole in the stable using his watch. At least that would’ve been more interesting to watch than Javier picking dirt from the tread of his boot with a knife. 

“He’s a busy man,” Javier said half-heartedly, not looking up from what he was doing. “Besides, Dutch has him running all over Rhodes and the surrounding area.” He pointed at him with his knife. “You should’ve seen him when he and Charles came back from saving Trelawny,” he said. “Rantin’ and ravin’ about some guys in a corn field.” He laughed and went back to what he was doing. “Man certainly gets into some crazy situations.” 

“I just don’t know why we have to wait around for him,” John sighed. “You and I are more than capable of stealing some horses.” He crossed his arms over his chest and came back under the shelter of the stable, out of the sunlight. He was starting to get a headache from squinting at the entrance to Caliga Hall in hopes of manifesting Arthur. He didn’t even really want to see him, either. Not right now. But if it meant that they might be able to do something productive, he would take it. “Y’know, last week when he was gone for a few days and Dutch sent Charles out lookin’ for him? Do you know what Charles said he found him doin’?” he asked, turning to look at Javier.

Javier shook his head. “No, but I feel like you’re about to tell me.”

“The man was out near Fort Wallace climbing along the fucking cliff side. Looking for rock carvings. Rock carvings! What the hell is he doing that for?” 

“ _ Actually _ , I do believe I was looking for treasure. Which I  _ found _ , by the way. Maybe you would’ve noticed the two gold bars sittin’ pretty in the camp’s donation box if you ever opened it to contribute.” Arthur’s voice chimed in casually, startling John as he approached him from behind. “The rock carving was a bonus. Also for the camp funds, if you must know,” he said, then added, “Met a feller out’n the mountains who’ll pay for drawings of the carvings. Now, you wanna talk about  _ strange _ , you go’n pay  _ that _ feller a visit.” 

Arthur had his thumbs hooked under his belt as he took a confident stance, knowing he’d caught John gossiping. 

“Whatever,” John grunted. “Let’s talk to Gray.” 

Javier smirked and put his knife away. 

  
  
  


The job had gone well enough. They’d met with the buyers, who’d all but laughed at them when they’d explained that they were expecting five thousand dollars for the horses. Despite making contact with a decent horse fence and getting a few hundred dollars, the three of them were in varying sour moods. Arthur wasn’t pleased that they’d once again been roped up in the Confederate family drama for a small payout. The stress of moving South and playing cat and mouse against themselves all because of a rumour about some gold was sitting heavy on his shoulders. Having John with him didn’t help either. The man kept giving him strange looks; there was something between anger and guilt in his eyes that unsettled Arthur. They were lucky to have Javier with them to ease the tension between them. Still, the ride back to camp was far from comfortable. 

Spending the day out and working had acted as a much-needed distraction for John. However, it lasted about as long as he was away from camp, and fizzled out as soon as his boots hit the grass when he dismounted from his horse. He wasn’t trapped at camp. His excursion with the others today, along with the promise for more work to be done tomorrow, proved that. With fresh surroundings, the move should have reignited that need to explore which he now knew came from his canine condition. It did, in a way. He’d been following Arthur’s example, much to his dismay, and had been leaving camp to explore. Not far, of course, and not for long. If he so much as stayed out longer than a day, he risked the onslaught of comments about him running off again. Jokes about being worried he’d be gone for good this time that didn’t completely hide the slight tinge of genuinity in the eyes of whoever was speaking to him. Besides, it only worked for about a week or so before the feeling of being trapped was more internal than external. 

He  _ was _ trapped, was the thing. He was trying his best to embrace it, though. To welcome another child. As much as he didn’t exactly like the idea of living on the run with this group of people for another four years, at least he knew that if he did, Jack would appreciate having someone close to his age to play with. Besides, it wasn’t like he  _ never _ wanted children. His rejection of Jack was more caused by the situation and the looming label of parenthood that was waiting to stamp out his youth. He’d been raised and taught by the nuns in the orphanage that it was his “womanly duty” to grow up, marry, and have children. While he hadn’t liked the idea of it being his “duty”, even before he’d realized he wasn’t a woman, he had fancied the idea of meeting a man (or a woman) and settling down some day. Then, of course, he grew up and realized that the world just didn’t have a place like that for a person like him. Gender and sexual identities aside, he was a vagrant and a thief. Coming of age in a time where civilization was an up and coming idea and him not having the upbringing to make him civilized was simply the perfect mixture for him to end up where he was now. 

Again, sitting at the campfire, he found himself staring into the warmth and wishing he’d slept with anyone else. It was hard enough for him to deal with yet another unintentional addition to his family amidst all the bullshit they were finding themselves in day in and day out. He really didn’t need to be worrying about trying to deal with his feelings for Arthur. Feelings weren’t even that hard to deal with. Anyone else in camp and the decision on whether he wanted to include them or not would be easy. Micah or Bill, he’d probably just shoot. Charles, he couldn’t ever imagine  _ not _ being a good person, let alone father. Pearson would be too tired and Kieran too scared to argue with him. He could even handle Javier’s bitching, he thought. But no, with his luck it had to be Arthur. He rubbed at his forehead, sighing as he realized he was stressing himself out over things he just couldn’t control. Going down the same trail of thoughts he’d had that morning. The same thoughts he’d had all day, looking at Javier and Arthur on their horses. Weighing the options whenever he could let his mind wander. It was Arthur, though. Arthur, who was just too God damn similar to himself. Arthur, who had just as much of the same childhood trauma as he did, just without the identity crisis as soon as he hit puberty. Arthur, who was across camp, getting forced into a discussion he didn’t want to have with Micah and Dutch, yet seemed so much further away. 

John was startled from his thoughts as Pearson announced that the stew was ready. Just in time, his stomach gurgled and he was reminded that he hadn’t actually eaten anything since the day before. He hadn’t exactly had an appetite after emptying his stomach first thing after waking up, and after that he just hadn’t had the time. He made his way over to the pot and got himself a bowl. This close, he could just make out what Micah was saying. Something about Colm, he thought, but he wasn’t sure. Colm wasn’t anywhere near them, last he checked, but any mention of Dutch’s nemesis couldn’t mean anything good. 

“Are you okay?” Charles asked, distracting John from his casual eavesdropping. 

“What?” John looked over at him. Charles wasn’t even looking his way and instead was focused on his bowl as he filled it with stew. John stepped out of the way as Charles left the line that had started to form as people came to eat and John followed him towards the scout fire atop the little hill. 

“Are you going to kill him?” Charles asked finally as they sat down. His tone was completely casual, as if what he’d just said wasn’t completely ludacris. 

John nearly choked on his broth. “What the Hell are you talking about? Kill who?”

“Arthur,” Charles replied evenly, as if it should have been obvious.

John paused. He started to consider the possibility for a second before he stopped himself, realizing that it would be stupid. “No. Why?” 

Charles looked at him for a bit longer that John would’ve liked. John felt like Charles was looking right through him, and it made him want to curl in on himself. “Hm,” Charles hummed, accepting his answer. He went back to eating, but John couldn’t.

“Is that it? Just checkin’ to see if I’m feeling murdery?” John asked, trying to sound light hearted in an attempt to ease his own discomfort.

“No,” Charles replied. 

John leaned in a bit, waiting for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t he said, “What the Hell are you gettin’ on about, then, Charles? ‘Cause you’re startin’ to creep me out,” 

“You’ve been real quiet and you keep watching him. I don’t think he’s noticed. I knew a man, once, who used to travel in a group like ours. He was the only survivor of a massacre caused by one of the other men. He told me about how one of the men, he was loud, fiery, angry, until one day he got really quiet. He almost seemed to disappear into the background. Then, the man I met, he woke up one night to the sound of choking, and when he looked around their camp, his friend was bent over one of the others’ bodies, slitting his throat. He’d waited until they were all asleep and had killed them all.” 

“Christ, Charles,” John said. “You think I’m gonna do that? Because I was lookin’ at Arthur?”

“No,” Charles answered. “It just reminded me of that story, so I thought I’d ask if you were going to kill him,”

John huffed out of his nose in amusement. “Yeah, okay. I guess that’s fair,” he said. “I’m not, but if I was, how would you know I wasn’t just lying?” 

Charles shrugged. “I guess I wouldn’t.” 

John shook his head. “You’re a strange man sometimes, you know that?”

Charles smirked. “Says the man who can turn into a wolf,”

John raised his brows, his head tipping slightly to the side. “You’ve got me there.”

They ate quietly for a while after that until Charles finally broke the silence again. “You know, it’s none of my business, but if you’re not going to kill him, you should probably do whatever else it is you’re going to do,” he said. As this seemed to strike a chord with John, he added, “He was the same way,”

John’s brows knitted together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“In Colter,” he said. “I don’t know how much you remember. Not much, I assume, with the way you were acting. But he was there, all the time. Probably just as much as Abigail was. Maybe more. She couldn’t stomach the sight of you at the worst of it,” he explained. “Sorry,” he said, seeing John cringe at whatever he did remember of it. Before John could butt in, he continued, “Horseshoe Overlook, too. Don’t think I ever saw him at camp  _ not _ circling around or near your tent when you were recovering still. Don’t think he even noticed he was doing it, but it was pretty obvious,” 

“Huh,” John wasn’t sure how to receive this information. In a way it made his chest feel tight. In another way, it pissed him off. If it was true, which he believed it was because Charles didn’t have any reason to lie, then that made Arthur just about the biggest hypocrite he knew. The man had refused to talk about the thing between them, and had outright denied its existence. He was so casual about everything else that John was reaching the point of believing him, thinking that maybe he was just imagining it. That wasn’t completely true, though. Arthur  _ knew _ it was there. That’s why he got so angry at him for bringing it up. He just wanted to pretend it wasn’t. Wanted John to pretend, too. And maybe John could have pretended, but not now. Not now that there was evidence. Evidence with consequences. He realized he was gripping his spoon a bit too tight and sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said quietly, trying to bite back the bitterness.

“I understand,” Charles said, then went back to eating.

As soon as John finished, he put his bowl in the wash basin at Pearson’s wagon before heading towards Arthur’s tent. Dutch was standing in front of his own, and waved John over. 

“Whatever you’ve got planned for tomorrow, cancel it,” Dutch said firmly, clasping a hand on John’s shoulder. “Colm O’Driscoll wants to parley and I need Arthur and Micah to come along. Which means I need you to go into town with Hosea as Arthur will be preoccupied,”

“Parley?”

“It’s pirate code. He wants to talk. To finally  _ end _ this feud, John,”

“We’re not pirates, though. Why don’t you just shoot him?”

Dutch sighed. “Because, John, we’re not animals. The only thing that makes us better than him and his lot. If he’s willing to talk, we’ll talk,”

John went to protest, but Dutch continued.

“Don’t you worry. I don’t trust him, either. That’s why Micah and Arthur are coming. If something goes wrong, Arthur’s one of our best shooters.”

John frowned. “Alright, Dutch,” he said. 

“That’s my boy. Now off to bed. You know Hosea likes to be up at dawn,” he smiled at him, clapping him on the arm and ushering him back to his tent. 

John felt childish being sent to bed, but more so he was disappointed by watching the light in Arthur’s tent extinguish before he got a chance to confront him like he’d wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa sorry this took so long. i hope this is coherent. i feel like ive lost it a little. kind of a lame way to end a chaoter but i promise the next one will have a bigger breakthrough.


End file.
